


HOW THE STARK STOLE CHRISTMAS

by Agent_Orange_III, Brooke_Lynn



Series: AWAKENINGS UNIVERSE [7]
Category: Captain America: The First Avenger - Fandom, Iron Man 1 - Fandom, Iron Man 2 - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 'the face', Angst and Humor, Avengers' First Christmas, Awakenings Universe Canon, Beware The Glitter, Burnt Cookies, Canes of Candy, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Christmas Rituals, Christmas in New York, Dog Alert, Emotional Sex, Friendship, Hot Chocolate, Hot Sex, Hot Springs, M/M, Mistletoe, Presents of Unknown Origin, Romance, Shopping, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve loves Tony, Team as Family, The Grinch - Freeform, Tony Stark Feels, Tony loves Steve, True Meaning of Christmas-Avengers Style, Wrapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 09:39:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5823688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Orange_III/pseuds/Agent_Orange_III, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brooke_Lynn/pseuds/Brooke_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark has never been a fan of Christmas. Could it be because his shoes were too tight or his heart was too small? Oh, wait, that’s the Grinch. As for Tony, Christmas has never been more than over-sentimental nonsense painted with gobs of glitter, a substance that should be banned from the world as far as he was concerned. But that was before Steve Rogers came into his life and took over his heart.</p><p>Steve Rogers hasn’t celebrated a Christmas in over seventy years and things have sure changed. In fact, he’s pretty confused about where he fits amidst the hustle and bustle of modern day Christmas. Can his new family and the love of his life help him cast off the shadows of Christmas Past and embrace the holiday season?</p><p>With their Avengers Family along for the fun, Tony and Steve spend a memorable First Christmas together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flamingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flamingo/gifts).



> Christmas or bust! Yeah, I planned to get this story posted by Christmas—three times. Yup, this thing has been being written over three different Christmases, sad to say. But this year, I finally did it. Well, almost. If you don’t look too closely at the posting date, we can pretend I achieved my goal of posting by Christmas this time.
> 
> Once again, I needed to jump ahead in the _Awakenings_ Timeline in order to present this story. And, once again, I assure you I do plan to go back when I pick up the thread of the main storyline on Not-Fiji island . . . and yes, they will actually get OFF the island in the next story.
> 
> I apologize for the lull in story posting since _Shift Change._ Many of my stories are partially written or at least outlined in full detail. In the past seven months or so, I have moved to a new state, packed up the house and life from the old state, began a new job while setting up a new household, and also relocated my 83-year-old mother and her belongings in the process. Hasn’t left much time for fan writing or fan fun of any kind, which makes me sad. But I am trying to get back into a more balanced existence, which will hopefully include more time to continue the tales in the _Awakenings Universe._
> 
> Seeing the trailer for _Civil War_ hurt my heart so deeply I almost decided to stop writing in the _Avengers_ Universe, or even caring about it. But my nearest and dearest have convinced me I should continue writing these stories as I see the characters. And the overwhelming support I get from you readers has bolstered me in ways I can’t even express. Those of you who post comments, or send me emails, or get in touch even in between stories just to let me know you still hope for more, truly encourage me and keep the light burning. I appreciate every one of your ideas and thoughts and find a great deal of inspiration there.
> 
> My biggest inspiration, as always, is my spouse and writing partner, Agent_Orange_III, who I am giving co-writing credit to on this story despite her protests. Not one word of my writing would exist without her support, creative input, hand holding, editing, and tireless work on behalf of my writing. Like Steve and Tony, I have been lucky enough to find true love and smart enough to hold on to it with both hands.
> 
> I have a lot more plans for Steve and Tony and the whole team moving forward, and I hope you are all patient enough to stick with me as I create those tales. Thank you so very much for your support!

How the Stark Stole Christmas

~~Tony Stark is Not the Grinch~~

~~Tony Got Run over by an Asgardian Reindeer~~

~~Joy to the World My Ass~~

~~The Magi Got off Easy~~

Thinking back, Tony should have seen this coming. The writing was on the wall. Thanksgiving should have been his first clue, but at the time, he didn’t give it much thought. He’d gotten used to the dysfunctional group of oddballs who had come along with the package when he’d gotten involved with Steve Rogers. All right, so they had insinuated themselves into his life even before that, but once the things that mattered to Steve jumped to the top of Tony’s priority list—which was probably right around the time those long-lashed blue eyes batted at him for the first time—any chance of shaking the rest of the clan fled for good. Because of Steve, The Avengers were not just an initiative, or a team, or even a hobby: They were family. Well, more like his quasi in-laws, despite the fact that he and Steve hadn’t tied the knot yet.

So it wasn’t exactly a complete surprise when he was informed his plan to whisk Steve to an extravagant chalet in the Alps for the weekend needed to be cancelled in favor of a “Family Thanksgiving Dinner.”

“We eat with them all the time,” Tony complained. Okay, he knew the argument was lame when he posed it, but what the hell? He had been pretty psyched about getting Steve naked in a snowy mountain hot spring. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that it’s Thanksgiving, Tony.”

Tony didn’t really understand why a holiday that glorified gluttony and misrepresented historical facts should get in the way of his libido, but Steve had a different take. He also gave Tony a helluva blowjob that night, leaving him amenable to saying yes to pretty much whatever.

So he cancelled the chalet to spend an overrated holiday eating dinner with the same people he worked with, lived with, vacationed with, and saw pretty much most days of the week. But Steve was happy, making the trade-off worthwhile. One of Steve’s highlights was getting to ride on the Elmo Float at the _Macy_ * _s_ Parade with Thundar ( _way to earn your paycheck, Madison_ ), then coming home to watch the whole damn thing again on the DVR. Football claimed the television for the rest of the day, and over-stuffed Avengers lingered on their couch until Tony finally chased their asses back to their own suites after midnight. Of course, Steve was face-down asleep on the couch by that time. Though that sweet ass was always a temptation, Tony decided to be good and tuck a blanket over him instead of pouncing. Steve needed the rest. Barton had concocted a crazy plan to show Steve and Thor exactly what the Black Friday experience was about, the three of them planning to rise at 4 a.m. to “do it right.”

Yeah, Thanksgiving had been pretty lame, but it was over. At least Tony had convinced himself of that, ignoring all the warning signs. He set himself up perfectly to walk face-first into a wall of what-the-fuck-just happened a few days after Black Friday. He probably deserved it for not paying better attention to the clues, but he sure as hell didn’t need Thor front row to make it worse. Thundar’s big head was panning back and forth like he was courtside at Wimbledon during Tony’s exchange with Steve, making the whole thing worse.

In his defense, Tony had pulled an all-nighter in the lab, and was pretty pissy that Steve hadn’t once come down to canoodle like he usually did to keep Tony from forgetting his priorities. He was tired and cranky already before he practically fell over the boxes in the entryway of the apartment—the same apartment he still hadn’t been able to blast Steve out of despite two, no two and a half, complete renovations of the penthouse. Yeah, maybe he wasn’t in the best mood when he dragged into the kitchen to find a Santa-hat-sporting Asgardian in a reindeer apron—complete with a red freakin’ nose over his crotch—humming along to overloud, sappy Christmas music, and racks of what had to be eighteen dozen cookies in weird shapes cooling. Both Steve and Thor were wielding long white tubes of what looked to be frosting, though Steve had more frosting on his sweater than on the tray of cookies he was aiming at. “Hey, cutie,” he greeted with a smile, pausing mid-squirt. “Glad you’re finally coming up for air.”

Steve tasted like sugar when Tony kissed him, which was pretty nice, actually. Things probably wouldn’t have blown up in his face if he’d just turned tail and headed for the shower right then and there, but he had to go and start talking, which was often his downfall. “What’s all this?”

“Trying to bake cookies, but I can’t seem to get the hang of this frosting-in-a-tube thing.” He and Thor laughed in that inside joke kind of way, which ticked Tony’s hair-trigger jealously button, making him grumpier. “Phil says it’s faster, though, when you have a lot of cookies, so I’m determined to keep trying. We’re going to take these to the Vet Center, along with the decorations in the living room.”

“Oh, that’s what’s in the boxes.”

“Yeah, I got some stuff for here, too.”

“For where?”

“The apartment. To decorate.”

Tony picked up a cookie from the tray and bit off what looked to be the head of a reindeer. Or maybe it was a black Santa. “If you want decorations in here, just tell JARVIS. He’ll schedule the designers. They have to finish up the tower anyway.” Tony was pretty proud of the Stark Tower Christmas display. It outclassed all the other buildings in New York City by far, and the tree in his lobby made the one in Rockefeller Center look like a dowdy weed by comparison.

“Yeah, everything in the tower looks really pretty,” Steve agreed, aiming the icing tube over what had to be snowmen, or possibly chubby albino elves. “But I’d rather we do the apartment ourselves.”

“We?” Tony did _not_ do glitter, and he hadn’t yet met a Christmas decoration that wasn’t dipped in the shiny, sticky shit that stayed glued to your fingers three years after touching it, and wound up in places you did not want to find sparkly flecks.

Steve smiled at him, licking sweetly at the frosting spooge on his finger, and Tony made a mental note to have plenty of gloves brought into the apartment so he’d be prepared for touching glittery box loads of tinsel and grinning elves. Yeah, he wasn’t getting out of this.

Should have cut his losses and run right there, but no, he opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water, not sensing the danger behind Steve’s next question until it was too late. “Oh, I wanted to ask you . . . are we giving presents together or separately? I’m still trying to come up with ideas, but then I thought I should ask you first.”

Cocky enough to believe he had this one, Tony answered with confidence. “Our presents can be from both of us, baby, sure. The shoppers are probably already working on it, but if there are any names you think should be on the list, just tell JARVIS and he’ll update the file.”

“The file?”

“Yeah, J keeps great track. Eliminates the possibility of repeat gifts. A Tony Stark present has to be extravagant _and_ original.” He laughed, another mistake. And then his foot slid from his mouth right down his throat. “I hear I’ve given some awesome gifts in years past.”

“You don’t even know what you gave?”

“Does it matter?”

Steve’s chin dropped and he was suddenly looking intently at the snowmen-possibly-albino-elves cookies. “Yeah, it kind of does.”

Tony read Steve’s body language well enough to know he’d fucked up. The ‘how’ was the unknown. _Back-up. Replay file_. He was more than willing to have the personal shoppers print _both_ their names on the cards, making the more-than-generous Christmas gifts from the two of them—as a _couple_. That’s what couples did, right? Wasn’t that what this was about? And Steve could add any names he wanted to the list. This Christmas crap was well in hand, one less thing for Steve to worry about. So why the hell wasn’t he getting the thoughtful boyfriend kudos he deserved? Baffled, he looked towards Thundar.

And the mistakes kept piling.

“I believe Steven may have been referring to gifts of a more personal nature.”

“What, like underwear? My staff can buy that.”

“You know what, Tony, it’s probably better we give separate gifts,” Steve decided, setting the icing tube down and walking to the sink, grabbing a handful of paper towels and dipping them in water before brushing off his sweater.

“What? Why? I thought this is what you wanted, for us to do this _together._ ”

“Not sure I’m seeing where the _us_ is in this scenario, but that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with giving separate gifts. Then nobody has to compromise their standards.” He turned off the water and dried his hands before walking towards the kitchen door. “I’m going to load some of those boxes in the limo. Happy said he could drive me.”

“Standards? What are you talking about? You can’t possibly think I’m cheap. Do you have any idea how much money is budgeted for Christmas expenses? The Stark Industries holiday bonus budget alone could—”

Steve cut off his rambling with a tender press of his lips. Still sugary. _Mmmmm_.

“Sweetie, I know how generous you are, believe me. I think I’d just prefer to get my own kind of gifts. And you do things the way you’re comfortable with. There’s no problem here, really.”

So, if there was no problem, why did Steve have . . . _the face_?

Tony hated _the face_. _The face_ combined the three Ds—disappointment, disillusionment, discontent—all tucked securely under a stoic, stiff-upper-lip façade, made all the more powerful by Steve’s complete lack of awareness that he was even making _the face_. Tony probably could have handled it better if Steve used _the face_ as a tool of manipulation, but he never did. In fact, he usually covered quickly. If you blinked, you missed it.

“Steve, wait. I don’t understand.”

“It’s really okay, but we can talk later if you want.” Steve hauled two big boxes into his arms. “I gotta get these loaded.”

And then he was gone. And Tony was left alone with Thor, who had a face of his own. One Tony wanted to smack off. “What are you looking at? Do they even celebrate Christmas on Ass-gard?”

“On Asgard, we honor many feasts, some akin to your Christmas in that—”

“Yeah, I stopped listening. Go back to your cookies, Keebler.”

~0~0~0~

Tony went up to the penthouse to take his shower; after all, what was the use of being in Steve’s apartment minus Steve?

He counted on a shower doing one of two things: Easing him into a relaxed, snoozy place that precursored sleep, or blowing the cobwebs out of the ol’ gray matter and rebooting his science brain. After padding around in naked discontent for twenty minutes, more than long enough to drip dry and stuff down a _Devil Dog_ , Tony had to accept that his shower had failed. He was too wired to sleep and too stupid to invent. Bad head space could sometimes be cured by good coffee, and it was no accident that his favorite coffeemaker was in the lab. And so it was that a pair of clean jeans and a _Heavy Metal_ tee-shirt later, Tony ended where he’d started—hunched over his workbench, empty mug in hand, unable to think. Well, unable to think of anything except _the face._

He’d tried to break the problem down mathematically, you know, a nice clean redox equation where all you had to do was bring balance to both sides and the problem would be solved—and this _had_ to be an oxidation reduction reaction, Tony reasoned, because he was definitely the chemical agent rusting up the works when it came to causing _the face_ to make an appearance. Yeah-yeah, it was just a matter of defining all the elements and plugging them into the formula, something like:

Fe++Cd10(s–)+Au+Vb(s10+) —> Au+(Cp+)

Fe equals Iron/Iron Man, ‘cause, iron, right?

Cd represents Cadmium/Tony, something easily cut and highly toxic.

Vb equals Vibranium/Captain America, and the world’s most famous shield, duh.

Au stands in for gold/Steve, which is a totally appropriate symbol for his golden guy.

And the **s** equals sensitivity, which Tony understood was not his strong suit.

Lastly, the Cp is for Christmas presents. (Or maybe this should be the unknown?)

That seemed to be most of the elements in play here, and Tony set the holographic symbols gently spinning over his workbench, when a tiny inner voice whispered, _But what about Thor?_ The voice sounded a lot like Jarvis, so he’s never really sure if it is JARVIS fucking with him when he gets an infrequent visitation from that ghostly Jiminy Cricket some new-ager might label his “inner wisdom.”

“What the fuck about Thor?” Tony asked aloud.

“Perhaps the Periodic Table symbol for thorium would be an appropriate representation of Mister Odinson,” JARVIS volunteered.

 _You can’t make this shit up—there really is an element named thorium_. Using his finger, Tony drew a “Th” symbol in the air. He looked at it for a moment, then topped it with a crudely drawn Viking helmet, complete with horns. With a flick of his finger, he set it to orbiting his equation like a very slow electron.

“J, pull up my last conversation with Steve and _Mister Odinson_ , cookie makers to the king.”

Thirty minutes later, having carefully dissected the three-minute and thirteen second video, Tony was still no closer to figuring out how he fucked up and called forth _the face_. But one thing was certain—Thor’s mug sure as shit said that he’s got a pretty good idea what’s going down.

“Fuck me. JARVIS, is Thor in the building?”

“He has just finished washing the dishes in Captain Rogers’ apartment.”

“Call Thor and tell him—ask him—if he can meet me here in the lab. Say I said ‘please.’” Tony rolled his eyes, having forced out the word, smart enough to know he shouldn’t piss off his only possible link to the insight he needed.

“Mister Odinson states that he will come with alacrity,” JARVIS responded a few moments later.

True to his word, the demi-god swept out of the elevator and into Tony’s lab before the coffeepot finished its brewing cycle. _Like Thor would ever break his word_ , thought Tony, thankful that the demi-whatever had left behind the hideous reindeer apron, wearing only jeans and a sweater. Thor was fond of Midgardian jeans, which probably made sense considering how well they showed off his ass-ets. Tony made a mental note to talk to Madison about possible endorsement deals. What company wouldn’t want their jeans modeled on his godly body? Keeping the Avengers Initiative self-sustaining and out of the grubby hands of both SHIELD and the government was always an on-going concern. Thor was more than happy to pose for that calendar shirtless, holding a variety of baby animals, the proceeds for which dumped a shit-ton of money into the Avenger coffers. Stood to reason he'd be down with being a hunky jeans model. 

“What can I do for you, friend Tony,” Thor asked with a sly twinkle in his over-blue eyes, seemingly oblivious to the Viking-Th symbol that batted into his forehead before ricocheting out of the lab.

A subsection of his brain still focused on monetary resources, Tony thought, _If I had a dollar for every time Thor called me “friend Tony”_ —he paused to search his memory— _I’d have 219 dollars._ “Why do you call me that?” Tony asked, derailing what he’d meant to say.

“Am I wrong to name you friend?”

“I _never_ call you friend.”

Thor’s features softened, gifting his face with a gentleness mirrored in his voice, a gentleness that Tony could not begin to define. “Each time you call me ‘Thundar,’ I hear the word ‘friend.’ ”

“Uh, yeah. You better get your old man to make an adjustment to your All-Speak-o-Meter, ‘cause Thundar don’t mean friend on Midgard.”

“It does when it falls from your lips. A distinctive moniker used solely by you towards myself. I have observed this custom countless times on Midgard. A ‘term of endearment,’ is it not?”

Tony felt his overtired eyes narrowing as he waited for his brain to supply a snappy comeback . . . one that just doesn’t come. Finally, he grunted dismissively, and turned to the freshly brewed pot. He was reaching for the stupid Santa mug that he only uses because Steve gave it to him, when a brawny hand covered the cup. Unless he was willing to scald Thor, which he’s pretty sure mere coffee couldn’t accomplish, Tony’s only options are to drink from the pot or set it back on the warming plate. He puts the pot down.

“Whatever weighs upon your mind, to ease your brow I am inclined,” Thor intoned in his most Shakespean voice, the one that Tony wished daily he could trade in for something more domestic; even a gimcrack Crocodile Dundee accent would be better than this Asgard-by-way-of-the-Globe-Theatre lingo that got under his skin.

“Look, this was a bad idea—”

“I agree! Too much coffee teamed with too little sleep is not wise.” Thor’s brows shot up, announcing loud and proud, like everything else about Thor, that some grand idea was hatching. “Instead of coffee, let us go to _George’s_ and partake of frothy chocolate delight.” Thor’s hammy paw slid off the Santa mug and briefly gripped Tony’s own, so brief that Tony didn’t have time to balk before he was released. “And there we may discuss the issue of Steven . . . upon neutral ground.” This last Thor declared with his back to Tony, his long legs already eating up the space between the workbench and the elevator. Tony knew he didn’t have to scamper to keep up, that JARVIS would hold the door for him for hours, if necessary, but nevertheless Tony found himself hustling.

_What the fuck did Thundar mean by ‘neutral ground’?_

~0~0~0~

Tony’s private elevator whisked them to the main concourse in seconds, and it was just a hop, skip, and a jump to the soda shop’s entryway. Still early, there wasn’t a line yet, not that Tony or his guests would ever have to thread their way through the corral of red-velvet ropes. Still, Tony was glad he didn't have to put on the charm for the tourist trade. He just wanted to chug coffee and pump Thor for info that will help him reverse engineer the appearance of _the face_ on his handsome honey’s head.

As they crossed the threshold, Tony never failed to note that the checkerboard flooring spells out _George’s Fountain—Official Egg-Creamer of the Avengers_ in glossy red one-inch tiles. He’d wanted to use Ironman red for the tiles, and not fire-engine red, but graciously gave in when Steve indicated that he thought the latter would look more authentic. And it was on the strength of that one word— _authentic_ —that Tony had sent his designers on a quest to make this soda shop the epitome of authenticity. 

Tony’s design team tracked down an entire 1941 soda fountain complete with all the original fixtures—it had been in storage since 1969 when the pharmacy that used to house it went out of business in Owensboro, Kentucky, and the family patriarch couldn’t bear to see the wonderful old fixtures sent to the dump. The old man was on his last legs, having just turned a hundred, but he’d still driven a hard bargain. Tony had offered him an arm and two legs for the entire set-up, but Pops Johnson, as everyone called him, wasn’t convinced until Tony flew in ol’ George to talk codger to codger. In the end, the two had gotten along like hammer and tongs, arguing syrups and sodas and sidecars, until Pops was finally convinced that someone worthy of his tools had come at last to take up the soda-fountain standard.

And that was how the massive CO2-powered commercial soda fountain, designed to carbonate the water used to make sodas and dispense the syrups that flavored them, came to be transplanted in Stark Tower. Nestled behind a mammoth wraparound counter of purest white marble, the fountain was flanked on either side by four three-up Hamilton Beach milkshake mixers, the original “green machines.” A wealth of fluted soda glasses, mugs, and tumblers were infinitely reflected in the mirrors that covered the back wall of the expansive work station. Coke-bottle green cake plates with clear glass covers displaying black and whites, cream horns, doughnuts, chocolate and vanilla layer cakes, as well as three different varieties of pie—apple, cherry, lemon meringue—dotted the snowy countertop. Standing in perfect contrast to all that marble was a row of twenty red patent-leather-topped stools, the kind bolted to the floor, that are the best for twirling around at high speed, as Tony knew from personal experience. A dozen old-fashioned booths with high admiral’s chair-styled scrollwork surrounded the perimeter of the shop, like a cheery wagon train camped for the night. Adding to the carnival scene were all the art-deco touches, like the triple-chrome inlays above the foot rail. Even the ceiling was authentic to the period: A guy in the West Village who calls himself the “Tin Man” created the lofty tin ceiling from scratch.

On the one hand, every bit of the shop was completely retro—refurbished to brand-spanking newness, sure—yet, true to its period and shiny with authenticity. At the same time, the shop felt completely current, as if Tony has stepped out of a time machine and into a place at the height of its technological wonder. Tony’s mechanic DNA appreciated the fact that George’s shop was no museum, nor a shrine to yesteryear. Instead, it was a workshop designed to do one thing perfectly: to serve soda-based beverages the way they were meant to be served, crafted by hand, mixed individually, and paired with timeless sweets. Each machine was tooled to that purpose, not a one superfluous or simply meant for show. _George’s_ was a moment out of time, to be sure, but also a place totally here and now. And to help insure that folks stayed “in the moment” while at George’s fountain, a neat little sign by the door announced, “ _George’s_ is an authentic experience—your cell phone will not work in the fountain,” a stricture enforced by JARVIS, one that also helped the Avengers keep some semblance of privacy. They were wont to drop into the shop at all hours of the day and night, setting the customers a titter, but were spared from the flash of numerous cellphone cameras, or unwanted appearances on Twitter.

But in true entrepreneurial spirit, George had set up a Souvenir Shop. There, patrons could purchase Avengers photos and memorabilia, and even occasionally get to pose for a photo with a willing hero (usually Thor, the big ham). Next to the door was an old-school, polished and lacquered bronze National Cash Register, the kind with the big, round pearlized buttons and a hand crank that totaled the sale. Tony really couldn’t argue with its looks: a beautiful machine, as lovely as any of Tony’s cars, but, com’on, it was ninety-years-old and they’d moved a long way from a cash and carry society. Tony had tried to talk ol’ George into a device from the 21st century, but had been shot down: “My dad used this cash register and so did my dad’s dad. You can pry this cash register out of my cold dead hands. Until then, buzz off.” What could Tony do? Tech his way around it, of course. For customers who wanted to use credit, all they had to do was tap their card anywhere on the cash register, and JARVIS would read the card number and process the sale. The old codger was making quite a pretty penny off those proceeds—despite Steve’s insistence he donate at least half to the Rebuild New York coffers. Considering he and his ever-increasing family were living rent-free in the tower now, Old George was, to quote him, “sittin’ on easy street” since the shop opened.

As far as Tony was concerned, the shop was some of the best money he’d ever spent. It made Steve truly happy to come in here. Even during his busiest weeks, Steve managed to find time to sit on a stool or slide into a booth, drink an egg cream or order up a malted. And despite the staff of top-notch chefs Tony employed, there was many a day when Steve ordered his lunch off the limited menu fare scrawled on the antique chalk board and shot the shit with George, particularly about the Brooklyn Dodgers. The food wasn’t really what mattered. The ambiance gave Steve a sense of comfort and, oddly enough, Tony felt it too whenever he came in. As if he was able to go back in time and step onto Steve’s turf. Everything about this place was about Steve for Tony. He hated admitting Thor was right—and he wouldn’t admit it—not out loud, anyway. But this probably was the best place to come and talk about Steve.

George barely cocked a shaggy eyebrow in their direction when they entered, merely setting aside his _Daily News_ so that he could begin preparing their standard order.

“No egg cream for me, George,” Tony called out. “I need coffee worse than I need the breath of life.” George grunted something that could have been agreement, acknowledgement, or merely gas.

Tony and Thor ensconced themselves in their regular booth—one perpetually reserved for the Avengers’ use. Before Tony had time to crack his knuckles with impatience, George placed a fluted glass in front of Thor and a heavy mug before Tony.

“I want coffee, George. Not hot cocoa,” Tony said, eyeing the steaming drink before him judiciously. “And I don’t like whipped cream. Well, except in the bedroom.”

“Yeah-yeah,” groused the old man, who looked like Ernest Borgnine reprising his Cabbie role in _Escape from New York—_ only more moth-eaten and rusty _._ “And I want to sleep the night through without having to get up to take a leak every hour, but I ain’t gonna get it. Learn to live with disappointment. Besides, JARVIS sez you’ve had too much coffee.”

“I concur—far too much coffee,” Thor added as he reached for his egg cream.

It was bad enough JARVIS tattled on him to Steve all the time. There wasn’t shit he could do about it since he himself was the one to give Steve Stark-level access to JARVIS early on in their relationship as a sign of trust and commitment. _Or did I just do it to get in his pants? Hard to remember these details. Whatever. Doesn’t make these two the boss of me._ “Yeah, well, buy some _Depends_ for your little nighttime leak problem and get me a cup of the damn coffee I pay for along with everything else in this place.”

“Feeling a little cranky today, Mister MoneyPants? I’ll get ya’ some prunes,” George snickered as he shuffled back to the counter and took up where he left off with his newspaper.

“I had perfectly good coffee in my lab,” Tony sneered at Thor, ignoring the froth clotting his mustache as he consumed his egg cream. “Coming here was your idea. You better have some good insight to share—or are we just wasting my time?”

“You wish insight regarding Steven, yes?”

“Duh. Come on, come on, tell me something useful so I can get back to my coffee maker.”

“Have you searched your heart?”

“Oh, come on!” Tony slammed his fist on the table, causing the hot cocoa to slosh and spill over the side of the cup. “Don’t go all fortune cookie on me. Give me something.”

Unfortunately, Thor had the patience of someone who had at least a couple of hundred years to kill, reaching for napkins from the metal dispenser on the table and using them to sop up Tony’s spill before going back to his egg cream. Tony sighed, dragging his hands down his face, taking a deep breath before trying again. “When you said, ‘I believe Steven may have been referring to gifts of a more personal nature,’ you obviously didn’t mean man-panties or maxi-pads. I figured that out for myself. But I still don’t know what you really mean.”

“Personal gifts come from the heart,” Thor intoned. “They are special—not because of their cost or rarity, though that can come into play, but because they speak to one’s relationship with another.”

“A personal gift—like, what? Monogrammed towels?”

“Anyone may hire a seamstress to decorate linens, but a personal gift would be to select the very hue of the fabric, so that it presents as a rich, dark eggplant, and to have the edges picked-out with cleverly stitched hawks in the varied colors of the archer’s changeable eyes. In this manner, the gift pleases not only the Hawk, but his handler and husband as well.”

“Huh.” Tony rolled his fist and propped his chin on it. There was an inkling of sense there if you picked through Thor’s flowery words. Still left him in the same place, though. “So I guess you’re calling dibs on monogrammed towels?”

Thor sighed, which pissed Tony off, because it was the sigh of a Homo-erectus teacher dealing with a Neanderthal student. Tony was well acquainted with that particular sigh, having used it himself about a million times over the years when addressing ignorant Yahoos.

“Let me guess. Not about towels.”

“You know it is not, Anthony.”

“Come on, Thor. He had _the face_. I have to figure this out.”

“Ah, yes, _the face_ ,” Thor nodded wisely, even looking a little sad. “I am aware of the countenance of which you speak. This is, indeed, of great import.”

“Then you have to help me. It’s not about towels and it’s not about what I thought it was about, either.”

“Which is?”

“The whole couples thing. Look, I suck at relationships. No news flash there. But Steve’s gotta know I’m trying to get it right this time. I’m willing to give gifts _together_.”

“Gifts of another’s choosing.”

“Another’s? You mean my shoppers? Thundar, believe me when I tell you they excel at their jobs.”

“As does your entire staff, but that does not make their purchases personal.”

“Oh, like you don’t have a gaggle of minions doing your bidding on Asgard. You’re the Number Two Big Cheese up there. Somehow I don’t see you flying to the local Kmart to get a cheese log for the office Kris Kringle.”

“The method would be determined by the nature of the relationship with the individual whom I wished to gift. Staff may certainly perform necessary tasks, including the selection of gifts, but for someone near to my heart, I trust no other with that honor.”

“You’re like talking to a jigsaw puzzle, you know that? Are you saying Steve wants to go out and buy this stuff himself? How does that make sense? Most days he’s busy saving the world and when he did go out with you and Clint for your little Black Friday excursion, he came back dumbfounded, discouraged, and ranting about the commercialism of our society.”

Thor chuckled. “It was indeed enlightening.”

“You can’t sit there and tell me that is the kind of thing Steve wants to do. He grew up in the Depression for Christ’s sake. Did they even shop?”

“I do not know. I can tell you nothing because I do not possess the information you seek. It is, as yet, undefined.”

Tony threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “What the hell are we doing here, then?”

“Was wondering the same thing,” George grumbled as he slid a fresh egg cream in front of Thor and gawked at Tony’s untouched cup.

An idea sparked and Tony straightened, “Okay, so George, you’re old.”

“Took all your genius to come up with that one, Sonny?”

“Focus, George. Back in the day, what did you do for Christmas? What kind of presents did you get?”

“Presents? You mean like shopping?” George squinted at Tony, and again he felt like the moron in class that everyone barely tolerates. “That’s the wife’s bailiwick.”

“Oh, so she buys gifts and puts your name on the card, huh?” Tony puffed out his chest smugly and pointed his chin at Thor. “Because that’s what couples do, right?”

“What of your wife?” Thor questioned. “How do you acquire an appropriate token for her?”

George laughed so hard he cackled. “That’s a different ballgame, now.” He gaped at Tony with something that passed for curmudgeonly sympathy. “Better get that right, Sonny, or you’re going to be sleeping on the sofa ‘til Valentine’s day, when it starts again.”  George was still laughing when he returned to the counter and got back to his newspaper, and Tony was no further enlightened by any of the time he had wasted here, which was pissing him off.

“You are dissatisfied with our counsel?” Thor deduced, nodding. “It is indeed a difficult quandary. But I am honored you have requested my assistance.”

“What assistance? Do you really think you’re helping me?”

Thor sucked his egg cream up through his straw, looking like he was giving solemn consideration to Tony’s question. Tony waited, though he had no idea why. This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He was actually about to bolt from the booth when Thor finally announced, “I have pondered this deeply and I believe I may have insight. These shoppers you employ to do your bidding, this would be an aspect of your Holiday Rituals, would it not?”

“My rituals?” Tony could feel the twisted WTF expression consuming his face.

“Our rituals define us, be they passed down societally, or through familial culture—”

“I don’t have _rituals_. I don’t give a shit about Christmas, but I do give a shit about Steve.”

“Perhaps your disregard for this holiday stems from your own upbringing?”

“You’re not Coulson, so don’t try the shrink-crap on me. Stark Christmas rituals? Yeah, the Starks are good at throwing money at problems. That’s how my parents did it; it’s how I do it. I spent my Christmases with a shitload of loot they sent me, which I opened in front of whichever nanny they could pay enough money to sacrifice Christmas with their own family to spend it with me. If that makes it a ritual, whatever. But this is about Steve. Help me with _that_.”

“Steven no longer has rituals. He has been trying to create them in this new-to-him world, but perhaps the reason we are finding it difficult to discern his desires is because he does not know himself? He wishes to create his rituals, but he struggles between memory of a world that no longer exists and one in which he is a mere babe, struggling with uncertainty.”

“Crap.” Tony picked up the cup of what was now cool-cocoa with melted whipped cream mush and downed it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before responding. “That actually makes sense. Doesn’t give me a lot to go on in terms of what to do, though.”

“He wishes the gift giving to be of a more personal nature. That much we have discerned.”

“Like your towel idea, which you still have dibbs on, right?”

Thor smiled. “Perhaps I can gift the idea to you.”

“Great! One down. Can you gift me a few more . . . ideas?”

Leaning back in the booth, Thor replied, “I shall storm the brains with you, my friend.”

“It’s brainstorm.”

“Exactly.” Thor clapped his large hands together, causing a vibration that jostled his empty glass and knocked the spoon from Tony’s mug. “The son of Coul is a man of refined taste. He is most particular about his shoon. Were we on Asgard, I would set forth at once for the street of the sandlers so that I may—”

“Street of the sandlers. JARVIS are you getting this? Come on, where’s the nearest street of the sandlers around here? Chop, chop, JARVIS, I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Sir, a shop called _The Cobbler_ on Sheikh Zayed Road in Abu Dhabi may be just the establishment you seek.”

“I don’t suppose they have a website? Oh, hell, let’s get the plane ready.”

“No, Anthony.” Thor’s meaty hand covered his. “You mistake me. This is not Asgard. The place is of no import. The knowledge of the person is your guidepost.”

“Why the hell is everything a fortune cookie with you? Are you going to help me or not?”

At that moment, George returned to the table, cackling as he set another frothy egg cream in front of Thor, along with a plate of donuts. “You got your work cut out for you with this one, big guy. I’ll keep da’ sweets comin’.”

~0~0~0~


	2. Chapter 2

Two nights later, Tony entered the bedroom of the apartment to find Steve on the floor amidst a sea of department store bags, uncharacteristically crabby. “Did Sears explode in here, baby?”

“Will you look at this? It has a hole in it. How do they sell damaged items like this?” He held up a Baltimore Ravens sweatshirt, sticking his finger through the armpit hole. “I bought this for Clint.”

“Clint hates the Ravens and that’s two sizes too big anyway.”

As usual, Tony’s mouth had moved quicker than his brain, which was quite a feat for someone with a brain processor the size of his, yet he managed. Steve’s expression shattered from grumpy to crestfallen in 2.3 seconds.

“But it’s purple,” he muttered, looking down defeatedly at the sweatshirt he was now fisting into a ball. “And Ravens are birds.”

Tony sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re right,” he responded, mustering cheer. “Hadn’t thought of that. Good choice.”

“Right. A ripped sweatshirt of a team he hates in a size not his. Excellent choice.” Tony ducked when the wadded purple ball flew towards his head.

Hoping to change the subject, Tony picked up a plastic _Hallmark_ shopping bag that contained a smaller brown bag within. “What’s this?”

“Cards.”

“Cards! We’re supposed to buy cards, too!” Tony pulled open the bag, realizing this was no simple box of generic cards. They were individual. Steve had picked each one himself. Probably read through, like, fifty before choosing the ones he had.

Steve snatched back the bag. “Don’t look in there!”

 _Uh, oh. Code for he bought me cards, too. Shit._ _New data_. Tony realized he would be expected to buy Steve a card. From a card store. Elbowing everyone in the Christmas section. More glitter. Sappy sentiments—as if some hack card writer could convey what Steve means to him in trite, rhyming couplets. Then a long-ass line to pay, trying to wipe his glitter-saturated fingers onto his pants while he handed his credit card to an employee grinning with false cheer, no doubt wearing a Santa hat. This was getting totally out of hand. “You didn’t say there were cards involved, too. And what’s with this shopping at stores? I thought these gifts had to be personal? These rules are complicated. Is there a cheat code or something?”

Steve stood, pushing his disarray of bags into the corner. “What are you talking about? What rules?”

“You didn’t want to use my shoppers, but now you’re running around stores buying—” For once, Tony was quick enough to cut off the word that would have gotten him into more trouble, adeptly censoring ‘crap’ for “—store stuff” without missing a full breath.

“Tony, I know what decade this is. I never said you shouldn’t shop in stores. I wasn’t expecting you to carve gifts out of wood. I just thought . . . I don’t even know what I thought anymore.” Steve shook his head, flustered and frustrated. “What difference does it make? We’re each getting our own gifts, so you can do whatever you like, really. I already told you that. You don’t have any rules to follow.”

“How ‘bout I show you what I’m getting for Barton and you can reconsider whether you want to put your name on it with me or stick with your oversized, torn shirt?”

Steve’s expression changed to one part pissed, two parts amused, so Tony figured there was hope of busting up his sour mood. “Sure. Show me what your expensive team of shoppers came up with for Clint.”

“It’s not about money,” Tony mocked, unable to wipe the cocky expression off his face despite . . . okay, despite _no_ effort to try. “And my shopping team had nothing to do with this. JARVIS, bring up the design image for Barton’s gift.”

Steve Rogers actually gaped as the designs for the personalized towels danced through the bedroom and Tony explained his concept. He had, of course, improved upon Thor’s limited design plan, making modifications, such as adding an embroidered background of tiny silver chevroned arrows on the most luxurious bath sheets on planet earth. “Granted I’m not sewing them myself,” Tony concluded at the end of his presentation. “I’m no Betsy Ross. But I’ve engineered the entire concept and personally selected every scrap of material. What do you think? Personal enough?”

“I . . . it’s . . . wow.” Steve was clearly impressed, and Tony puffed out his chest, looking forward to the forthcoming praise. Instead, Steve looked like a popped balloon, flopping down on his stomach across the bed. “That’s a great gift, Tony. Clint will really appreciate it. But it’s your gift. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

For a second, Tony lost interest in Christmas presents, the praise he just got cheated out of, and pretty much anything else. Steve’s luscious ass was inches away, juicy and pet-able in those workout pants that molded to every spectacular curve. Ideas beamed from his cock, screaming plans for the different ways he could take advantage of Steve’s position, but the inner voice that he swore sometimes JARVIS implanted in him, the one that acted as a conscience in the rare occasions he bothered to listen, was hollering a different plan: _Focus, Stark!_ _This is not the time to be thinking with your dick!_

An argument could have been made that there was never a _bad_ time to think with his dick, but he overcame the urge to debate the point. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed closer to Steve’s head—away from temptation. “What are you talking about? We’re a team. We give Barton the towels together and you come up with something for Nat, because, frankly, not one of the kick-ass weapon designs I’ve come up with exactly scream Christmas spirit. I’m thinking I should hold them off for her birthday. You got anything for her?”

Steve’s energy took a turn for the better as he rolled to his side and faced Tony. “Actually, I’ve been working on a painting. Remember that debriefing in Washington last month? Natasha took me to a Harlem Renaissance exhibit at the Renwick Gallery. I got the idea to paint her something then, when I saw how much she liked Delaney’s _Penn Station at War Time._ Do you know the work?”

“No. J, give me a visual.” The words had scarcely left his mouth before the AI projected the image in front of Tony.

“Could you project my painting too, please, Jarvis?” Steve requested as he rolled over and sat up. A second image appeared next to the first. “I’ve borrowed his style, which is pretty difficult, and I’ve set the painting in the modern-day Penn Station. I think she’ll like it.”

“Agreed,” Tony nodded. He’d purchased a lot of art in his time, but never because it appealed to him. Whoever did the Penn Station piece was okay, but Steve’s version was clearly superior. How would anybody not like it?

“I had thought about creating artwork as gifts for everyone, but I underestimated how long it takes to do a piece. I haven’t done more than draw since, well, since before I joined the army. My painting muscles are pretty rusty.”

“I think all your muscles are top-notch,” Tony replied, running his hand over a perfect bicep, even as his eyes caressed the gold-toned image admiringly. “So, do we have a plan? I share the towels and you give me some credit with the painting for Nat? I can get it framed for you.”

“That really what you want?”

Tony couldn’t decipher the expression gazing at him. It wasn’t _the face_ , but there was something. Sensing the danger of making a wrong move here, he simply smiled and changed the subject. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we go shop for that tree you wanted for the apartment? We can talk about gift ideas later.”

“I didn’t think you were really interested in doing that. Besides, you were right. You’ve got enough trees in the tower and they all look great.”

“And _ours_ will look even better.” Tony sprung to his feet and took hold of Steve’s hand. “You’re not going to let a ripped Ravens shirt defeat you, are you? Get your sexy ass in gear and let’s go do this Christmas thing.”

Steve leaped up, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist and lifting him from the floor as he kissed him soundly.

_Okay. Maybe this Christmas nonsense could grow on me._

~0~0~0~


	3. Chapter 3

It was close to midnight when they returned to the tower hauling the tree they had finally settled upon after hours of shopping—and bickering. Most of the trees Steve picked out were scrawny and cheap, yet he still had to the nerve to argue Tony’s choices were pretentious and totally the wrong proportion for the space, which, of course led to another argument about where, exactly, the tree would be placed. Tony was unhappy with the lots in Manhattan pawning off cheap weeds as Christmas trees and insisted they drive to Long Island where the selections were more suitable, though, if he had truly gotten his way, they would be awaiting a tree imported from Denmark, or at the very least, Canada, both huge exporters of quality Christmas trees (yeah, Tony had done his homework). Since Steve wasn’t going for that plan, they wound up settling for a tree they found out in Islip that Tony had to admit wasn’t half bad. Okay, maybe half, but Steve liked it and he didn’t hate it, so that was a good Christmas compromise, right?

Didn’t end there, though. Steve decided the tree was way too big for the amount of decorations he had already stockpiled, and the next thing Tony knew he was in a _Lowe’s_ —a _Lowe’s_ for Christ’s sake—pushing a cart through aisles of manically cheery-faced blow-ups and twinkly lights, bristling with complaints.  

“Why are we here again? You do know I have hand-painted ornaments from Bavaria along with a warehouse full of high-tech lighting choices at your disposal, right?”

“Where exactly _is_ Bavaria?” Steve asked disinterestedly as he opened a box of garish blue, glitter-laden, cheap crap ornament bulbs close enough to sprinkle some of the shiny debris all over Tony’s hand.

“Dammit, Steve,” he complained as he tried to shake it off. “Keep the damn Christmas fairy dust in the box.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of soap? You’ll live.”

“You sure you want to pick those? There are way uglier ones in that aisle.”

“They’re nice,” Steve insisted, setting them carefully into their rapidly filling cart.

“Gorgeous. Crafted in the finest sweat shop in Brooklyn, no doubt.”

“Well, it’s no Bavaria, but I hear they make really good stuff in Brooklyn,” Steve countered, his eyes twinkling brighter than all the lights in the place. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, I gotta give you that one,” Tony grumbled, keeping his rapidly thickening rod strategically tucked behind the cart. Only Steve could manage to look edible in the middle of _Lowe’s_ , sandwiched between carts of screaming kids up way past bedtime, and bickering adults who couldn’t decide between the tacky Frosty or the tackier Hello Kitty, or settle the debate of white lights versus color, all while Christmas music incessantly blared through the scratchy store speakers. “I’m in Christmas hell,” he decided, making sure to mutter low enough to not be heard over the clamor as Steve scoured the next aisle to see if he could locate ropes of garland more hideous than the ones he’d already picked.

Truth be told, the evening really hadn’t been that bad. They had laughed _a lot_ in between the heated debates over tinsel and a grotesque substance known as artificial snow, second only to glitter as the most unpleasant residue Tony had ever encountered, and that included flying space-leviathan guts. They were still laughing—and sparring—in the garage beneath the tower when Tony had insisted on helping Steve haul the tree off the expensive roof of his car and stuff it into the elevator—breaking three boxes of cheap crap ornaments in the process, which Steve insisted he did on purpose.

“I did not!”

“Did you really think I couldn’t lift this by myself?”

“What I really thought was we had scratched enough of my expensive paint with this prickly monstrosity.”

“You love this tree. You picked it.”

“Me? Have you been breathing in too much glitter?”

“You’re replacing those ornaments.”

“Sure. Because the other eight thousand you bought won’t nearly cover Tree-zilla here, right?”

“Hey, nice tree,” Clint called as they dragged it through the door, leaving a trail of pine needles from the garage to Steve’s apartment.

“Tony, just let me lift it.”

“Barton, what the hell are you even doing in here?”

“Watching TV.”

“Because this is the only TV in the whole tower, right?”

“Look out for the table,” Steve warned just as Tony’s butt crashed into it, sending a shitload of Steve’s junky knick-knacks to the floor.

“Phil’s working late,” Clint informed, as if that explained his need to freeload in Steve’s apartment. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

“You’re replacing whatever you broke.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got the ugly-shit store on speed dial.”

“You need to tuck those branches more.”

“Guys, if you just let me lift this and stop yanking, I can stand it up.”

“We said we weren’t putting it there,” Tony whined.

“Why don’t you go down to the car and get the rest of the ornaments?”

“Let Barton do that. I’ve got enough glitter on my jacket to light up Manhattan.”

“I have procured your packages,” Thor announced from the doorway, carrying the contents of Tony’s car in his arms. “Let the festivities commence.”

“Festivities? What? Where the hell did you come from? JARVIS, are you sending out some kind of homing beacon for these characters?”

“I assure you, sir, no such beacon was necessary.” The apartment suddenly filled with the sounds of the same sappy Christmas music that was playing in the _Lowe’s_ and everywhere else they had been tonight, including the radio of Tony’s car.

“JARVIS!”

“Is someone starting a Christmas tree stand in the elevator?” Natasha asked, joining what had apparently become an open house. “I think half the branches from that monstrosity are in there.”

“They’re leaving a trail for Santa’s elves to follow,” Barton cracked.

“This tree is _not_ a monstrosity,” Steve argued as he wrested the tree from Tony and stood it upright near the center of the wall of windows, visibly disappointed to find it was too tall, the upper quarter bending in half against the high ceiling.

“Good job with those proportions,” Tony snarked, no intention of diluting his I-told-you-so tone one drop. He leaned against the chair, surprised to find Bruce ensconced there, tucked behind a huge tome. “When the hell did you get here? Do you people just hide in the closet until Steve comes home?”

“A surmountable quagmire,” Thor blustered. “Allow me.”

“Oh, shit, here we go,” Tony grumbled, washing his hands over his face. “JARVIS, calculate the correct proportions and project the schematics before Thundar tears this entire tree apart like the wishbone after Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Cyber computer calculations aren’t exactly in keeping with the spirit of Christmas,” Clint chimed in, though when anyone asked his opinion, Tony wasn’t sure. And why the hell were they all in here again?

“Clint’s right,” Steve decided. “I can just get a saw.”

“Are you really looking to saw up a tree in your living room?” Natasha asked.

“What do you suggest?” Clint laughed. “Shooting it?”

And suddenly the great Christmas tree debate broke out. How the hell he had gotten into this when he had way more important things he could be doing? _Oh, yeah. Cheering up Steve from his Christmas doldrums._ Well, it did kind of work, just not the way he expected. His vision for the end of the evening was more along the lines of a grateful, happy Steve—and zero other Avengers. Did the entire team conspire to cock-block him?

 _This Christmas business really sucks_.

~0~0~0~

After a few hours he would never get back had passed, Tony was relieved the tree was shaping up. It didn’t look half bad against the windows with the spectacular view of Manhattan and Brooklyn behind it. The lights were totally wrong, of course, but Tony would wait until Steve went to sleep and fix them. Both Steve and Thor had placed far too many ornaments high up, making the bottom look bare by comparison, an asymmetry Natasha didn’t hesitate to point out, despite spending more time drinking wine and overly spiked eggnog than hanging crooked reindeer ornaments. Eggnog. How gross was that? If you were going to drink, have a real drink.

Tony had wished several times over the course of the evening that he had had a real drink, but he was getting pretty good at behaving and he wasn’t about to blow it tonight after going to all this effort to make Steve happy. Instead, he cradled his mug of hot cocoa that Steve had prepared the “right way.” Steve could get pretty bent out of shape when presented with the processed powdered packets that passed for hot chocolate in non-cave-soldier times. Steve used a pan, a whisk—an actual fucking whisk, canned milk—canned milk!—salt, a fuck-ton of cheap, processed sugar (not the expensive, organic _Kokuto_ sugar Tony imported directly from Japan), and a bar of something he called baker’s chocolate, but looked more like _Ex-Lax_. Couldn’t argue the result, though. Even if Tony had wanted to bitch about it, he’d be hard pressed since the stuff tasted delicious. Besides, he wouldn’t have bitched anyway since Steve made it, taking great pride in his concoction. Thor’s overly large reindeer sugar cookies on the other hand—another batch of which Tony could smell burning in the oven—were another story. When the hell did the demigod of lightning and ass-kicking decide he liked baking? Did they really need an Asgardian Paula Deen? And why the hell did he always seem to be doing it in Steve’s kitchen?

JARVIS was no better, first piping in the incessant yuletide warbling of Bing and company—Bing? What kind of grown man lets people call him Bing?—and later, acquiescing to Barton’s birdbrain idea to introduce Steve to some Christmas television classics. Good ole Rudolph and Frosty, along with Charlie Brown, a freaky looking drummer boy with a painted smile, and the Burgermeister Meisterburger himself had all played in the background during the tree-trimming. No, more accurately, they held up the tree-trimming several times as Steve, Thor, and Bruce of all people, got overly-riveted to the contrived, poorly animated saccharine stories. Tony was truly wishing there was a way to surgically remove the repetitive loop of Burl Ives singing _Holly Jolly Christmas_ from his brain, but it turned out all he needed was a dose of The Heat Miser/Snow Miser songs to replace it. He actually had a soft spot for those guys—not that he shared that fact with anyone while they were watching and he was grumbling about having to put the whole damn tree up himself. But the annoying overdose of Christmas Children’s Television Theater had served one useful purpose: another gift idea, which had come to him while ragging on Bruce about his apparent fondness for crappy cartoons.

“I can’t believe you actually put your textbook down for this sugar overload. I mean, with Steve, it’s endearing, and Thundar is just plain goofy, but you don’t strike me as the type.”

Banner looked down awkwardly and squirmed before responding. “Truthfully, these shows kind of set my teeth on edge, but . . . The Other Guy. Makes him happy for whatever reason.”

Tony was ready with a particularly witty comeback, but the light bulb in his brain flicked on so hard and fast, his head hurt for a second. When he’d recovered, he took off for the bedroom to issue orders to JARVIS in private. The next thing he knew, he was mapping out floor plans and dimensions while listing materials. He’d completely lost track of time until he tripped over one of Steve’s department store bags and remembered what he was supposed to be doing. “Shit!” He quickly finished up and left the project in JARVIS’ capable hands—or brain—and headed back into the living room. Steve was actually under the tree when he returned, but popped back out at Tony’s entrance, so quickly, in fact, his head bumped the base and sent the tree teetering, but Thor caught it before more than a few ornaments and a strand of cheap lights flew off.

“Didn’t think you were coming back,” Steve admitted when he’d regained his feet and met Tony at the threshold of the room. He gestured his head toward the over-crowded, Christmas-chaos filled room. “I know this isn’t exactly your thing.”

“You kidding?” Tony grinned. “We’re in this together, remember?”

Steve looked so genuinely happy Tony was almost willing to don a goofy white-fur trimmed hat and sing a chorus of _Holly Jolly Christmas_.

Almost.

Thankfully, Steve was willing to settle for a kiss, one that tasted of rich, sweet cocoa, and nearly sent Tony into sugar shock.

“Oh, will you two get a room, for Christ’s sake,” Barton cracked.

“Technically, these are all our rooms,” Tony pointed out as Steve laughed and went back under the tree. “Feel free to vacate them at any time. In fact, shouldn’t you be in _your_ suite waiting for your husband?”

“Phil’s in the kitchen grabbing a mug of Steve’s cocoa and tweaking Thor’s cookie recipe,” Barton responded, crunching down on a giant misshaped sugar cookie and making a distasteful face. Didn’t stop him from eating the rest, though.

“Oh, good. The party continues,” Tony grumbled.

Barton bounded up from the chair he had been splayed in, joining Tony near the entryway of the living room. “It’s not so bad you know,” he said, his voice lowered now for only Tony’s ears. “This Christmas stuff. I know it takes getting used to, but give it a chance.”

“What are you, the Hawk-Elf, now?”

“Just a guy who’s been where you are.”

“You and I don’t exactly travel the same circles, Barton.”

“Really? Do you mean the corner of despise Christmas and left-out boulevard? Like they really had to make a holiday to play up images and songs about stuff you don’t have? Family and caring and sharing. Bullshit, right? Makes you hate it so bad you want to torpedo every inch of it until you obliterate the whole damn thing. And at the same time you feel like a freakin’ outcast, like the world is one huge snowglobe and you’re outside the dome. Nah, I don’t get any of that. You’re right.”

Clint moved to return to his chair, but Tony took hold of his arm, feeling like the shit he was. The Stark Family Christmases were no postcard, but he always had food to eat, a warm place to sleep, and nobody putting a beat down on him. “How is it different now? For you?”

Clint smiled and gestured his head toward the kitchen. “I have him now. This shit always mattered to him. Took me years to understand that and a few more to get with the program. But now? Well, like I said, it’s not all that bad. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a good job. Steve’s happy.”

“Yeah?” There were no words Tony needed to hear more. He looked over to where Steve was on his back beneath the tree like a mechanic under a car, only he was covered in garland, not oil, garland that kept falling on his face every time he tried to string it through the lower branches. He was swatting at Thor’s cape, which kept smacking him in the face as well. Yes, only Thor would decide that decorating a Christmas tree was worthy of full regalia.

“Yeah,” Clint confirmed. “Oh, and Stark. One more thing. Your hair and beard are full of glitter.”

_Fuck!_

~0~0~0~

Tony had come this close to shaving every strand of facial hair—and even considered buzzing his head—in his manic efforts to rid himself of the infernal glitter. He had tried to hold out, not wanting Steve to think he was bailing again, but then he couldn’t stand it anymore and retreated to the bathroom to undo the damage. Two showers and a thorough search with tweezers and magnified mirror later, he rejoined the group only to find the impromptu tree trimming party finally winding down. Considering dawn would be breaking soon, this was good news. The television was still blaring, the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes for the fourth time that night. Natasha was tucked in Bruce’s lap, nodding off while he gazed hypnotically at the screen. Clint and Phil looked to be trying to make some semblance of order out of the strewn ornament and light boxes that littered the floor. Steve was curled in the corner of the couch, sleeping. Thor was sitting on the edge near his legs, gaping at the screen as if he were beholding magic.

“They all eat roast beast and sing the stupid Who song,” Tony reminded, switching off the television.

“But that is best part,” Thor objected, clearly miffed that Tony cut off his entertainment.

“Then go to your own apartment and watch it another thousand times. Party’s over. Out. All of you.”

“Behold the real Grinch,” Clint laughed.

“That’s right. Now get out before the ghost of Christmas future shows up. You know, the really creepy one. I invited him over.”

Thankfully, they all finally gathered their belongings and staggered out, Tony locking the door behind them. Steve hadn’t as much as stirred during the exodus, still curled on his side, fist tucked under his chin. The lights from the tree were reflecting off his perfect skin, the long, dark eyelashes looking as if they were twinkling. Funny, glitter didn’t look nearly as repugnant sprinkled over Steve. He seemed content, which sent a flush of warmth through Tony. He thought about waking him so they could go to bed, maybe collect on some of this good Christmas karma he’d been racking up, but chose to let him be a while longer, deciding to take the opportunity to fix the hack job they had done with the Christmas lights.

He’d only gotten about halfway done when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He was already climbing down from the step ladder and moving towards the couch when JARVIS alerted him.

“Yeah, I know, J. I got it.”

He and Steve were no strangers to nightmares, but their reactions couldn’t have varied more. Tony was all violent thrashing and screaming, punching anything in range, including poor Steve some nights. Good thing Steve was the opposite or he’d be pretty broken on the bad nights. Instead, Steve was tight, tense, and deathly quiet, which was why he had JARVIS on alert for the signs, in case he slept through them. He came around the couch, flattening his palm to Steve’s cheek, feeling the icy flesh, which confirmed what his gut already knew.

With practice, he could banish the image of Steve trapped in that icy hell for endless decades pretty quickly now, though it would always land like a burning acid ball in the pit of his stomach. Ignoring that, the important thing was to focus here and now. “Hey, baby,” he called, stroking softly against the cold cheek. “Time to wake up. You’re safe. Come on, open your eyes for me.”

Steve’s body was stone, curled in on himself, breathing shallow. Tony knelt on the cushion, stroking soothing fingers over his brow and through his hair. “Steven, I need you to come back to me, now. You can do it. Open your eyes. You’re safe here.”

The faintest whisper puffed through those perfect lips. “Bucky.” That was odd. The Bucky dreams usually consisted of Steve reaching out in vain for the umpteenth time to grab a hand that would forever slip away. And the name was usually called more frantically.

“It’s Tony, baby. Open those gorgeous eyes. Nightmare’s over. You’re safe here with me.”

Steve moaned, a tortured sound, and then his eyes did open. For a second, whatever he was seeing didn’t exist in this room, but then his eyes found Tony’s and a heavy exhalation escaped his throat. “That’s it,” Tony encouraged, making sure the warmth of his hands continued to stroke cold arms and chest, hoping to help Steve thaw and unknot. “You’re doing great. Just a dream. Can’t hurt you. I’ve got you.” Steve’s eyes darted around, assessing his surroundings. “You’re home, honey. Just me and you. No worries. Just take it easy.”

“Tony.” The steel knot of limbs loosened a bit, Steve’s fingers finding their way around Tony’s wrist, clasping.

“Com’ere,” Tony encouraged, sliding down into a sitting position, encouraging Steve through their joined hands to move his head to Tony’s lap. Steve burrowed there, quiet, as he often was upon waking from a bad one. He would talk about it later—or not. Didn’t matter. Tony didn’t push. Steve’s life was suffocated with expectations, internal and external. Sometimes what he needed most was to just _be,_ especially when he was a mess. He trusted Tony with that side, and Tony knew it was too big a thing to screw up.

Tony got JARVIS to put _The Grinch_ back on, hoping the background noise would have a calming influence. He kept his touches steady and soothing, wondering how far through the decades Steve had to climb back from. He knew there were times Steve woke and couldn’t immediately reconnect to where he was in his present life. How freakin’ unsettling that had to be. Tony had a tough enough time waking and reminding himself he wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore. Couldn’t imagine re-schooling himself on how many people in his life were dead along with the world as he knew it.

“Sorry,” Steve muttered eventually, holding steadfast to Tony’s leg the way you’d clutch a life preserver.

“You should be. Can’t believe I’ve got to listen to these damn Whos singing that gibberish song again. No wonder the Grinch went postal. What the hell is a Who anyway? Or would that be who the hell is a Who?”

Tony felt the small laugh rumble through Steve’s body, which was good sign. “Was all an act. The Grinch. Really loved Christmas, you know. Just hard, being on the outside.”

“Don’t even,” Tony warned with a smile, picking up on the unspoken comparison. “Come on. Sit up and appreciate your tree. I made some necessary modifications. Looks way better now.”

“Modifications?” Steve groaned, rising, unsteadily at first. He pushed back against the bolster of the chaise section, no doubt needing the support to stay upright. Tony pushed between his upraised knees, plunking his back against Steve’s chest to keep the contact steady while they both looked towards the tree.

“Didn’t have time to truly perfect it yet, but I think it looks pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.”

“The Stark touch.” Steve sounded pleased, but his voice was still craggy.

“You love a good Stark touch,” Tony reminded, reaching his arm around to the back of Steve’s head, tugging lightly on the blonde locks.

“I do.” He kissed the top of Tony’s head and sighed. “Tree looks great. Lot of fun tonight. Last night? This morning?”

Steve was still confused, and the heartbeat Tony could feel pounding through his chest hadn’t fully regulated. “Wanna talk about it?” he ventured, guiding Steve’s arms around his own chest in a hug that sealed them closer.

“Just Christmas. Brings up stuff, you know?”

“Oh, I know.”

Steve nestled his chin atop Tony’s head. “The year my mom died. When I ended up in the orphanage. I got real sick and they moved me. A place in Manhattan. Guess I was too big a handful for the small one in Brooklyn.”

Tony bit down on the rage that always flooded him when he listened to the harshness of Steve’s past. What he really wanted to do was build a time machine and go back and kick the ass of everyone who ever hurt him—and then rescue him and keep him safe and loved forever. The last part; that aspect of the plan he had every intention of carrying out.

“Anyway, I didn’t know, but Bucky’s family had been trying to find me. My mom and his mom were like sisters and when my mom realized how sick she was getting, Mrs. Barnes promised to look after me, even though they barely had enough for themselves. I wasn’t even supposed to end up in the orphanage, but a lot was going on. And with them moving me and all, took a while for them to figure out where I was. Red tape or whatever. But, um, Bucky wasn’t going to let red tape stop him.”

Steve got quiet again and Tony wasn’t sure he was going to hear the rest of this story, if there was a rest. Probably didn’t help that Tony had once mockingly referred to Steve’s best friend as Saint Bucky Barnes, a cross between Clark Gable, Santa Claus, and Jesus Christ—as well as an asswipe. _Yeah, not my finest hour, but I was pretty jealous._ Steve probably didn’t feel comfortable talking to Tony about him. He almost never did, though, once in a while, Tony caught the tail end of a conversation about Bucky between Steve and Clint, or someone else. Even those times, Steve changed the subject quickly.

“I need to fix some of the garland,” Steve pointed out, changing the subject now as well. “You got it knotted when you were messing with the lights.”

“I didn’t mess with the lights, I perfected them.” Tony paused for a half a second. Did he really _want_ to hear the end of the story? Wasn’t like he was any bigger a person now. Ticked him off to no end that Saint Bucky Barnes had a piece of Steve that would never be his. But as the Grinch stared into Cindy Lou Who’s big blue trusting eyes on the screen in front of them, Tony felt his better side poking him internally with a stick. A sharp stick. “So, don’t leave me hanging. What about the orphanage? This has something to do with Christmas, right?”

Tony’s back rode the wave of the deep breath as it expanded Steve’s chest. “You could say that.”

“Tell me.”

“By the time they found out where I was, it was Christmas. Offices weren’t going to be open again until after New Year’s. Paperwork, you know?” Tony was having trouble hearing Steve despite sitting practically on top of him. He signaled for JARVIS to lower the volume on _The Grinch_ , even pausing his own breathing to eradicate erroneous sound. “Bucky was pretty sore about that. So he decided to break me out. Busted two windows at the orphanage. A whole group of kids made a break for it that night. We didn’t get all that far. I wasn’t much of a runner back then. And he wouldn’t go without me, even when the cops started chasing us. We ended up spending Christmas in jail.”

Tony was picturing something that looked like a cross between Butch and Sundance and the Bowery Boys being chased by the Keystone cops. Would have been funny if he wasn’t so aware of how thin and frail a young Steve would have been in the brutal December wind. “That must have sucked.”

“Wasn’t so bad.” Steve sounded wistful, though his hands were ice cold beneath Tony’s grasp. “First Christmas without my mom, but I didn’t have to spend it alone. We talked about her all night in the jail cell. Told stories. Was nice. ‘Cept the next day when I got thrown back into the orphanage until after New Year’s and Bucky caught a beating from his dad.”

So one of Steve’s fondest Christmas memories was spent locked in a cold, dank jail cell? Oddly enough, it made some sense to Tony. Because all the trees and lights and gifts in the world had never made Christmas _feel_ like anything to Tony other than a day to be reviled. “I guess I’m going about this Christmas thing all wrong with you. Should I work on making it more Bob Cratchet-esque?”

Tony was relieved when Steve laughed. “Nah. What we’ve got going here is fine. Well, except for one thing. You might have been right about the position of the tree. Probably would look better closer to the left wall.”

“I knew it.” Tony shot to his feet, vindicated. “Let’s move it right now.”

“Now? We’ve been up all night and we both have full schedules today.”

“Don’t be such a wuss. Come on, soldier. Move! Christmas waits for no man.”

“Well, it’s going to have to wait a few more minutes.” Steve pulled Tony back into his arms and kissed him with a mixture of longing and fragile emotion, eventually drawing back to whisper, “Thanks for listening to me.”

“Thanks for letting me.” Tony climbed back into Steve’s mouth, devouring. The fucking tree could wait.

_Hey, Christmas can be pretty hot!_

~0~0~0~


	4. Chapter 4

The Christmas season actually flew by. Besides the Operation Rebuild Efforts, the Avengers were kept pretty busy dealing with more than the usual share of Chitauri roll-outs, the term they coined to refer to any op that involved dealing with the weapons and tech leftover from the invasion. There had been a lot of that shit left behind in the messy aftermath of their victory, a good deal of which fell into the wrong hands, of course. Some of the incidents had the potential to get ugly fast, like the insurgent group in Sokovia that figured out a way to power the weapons and start blasting up Eastern Europe, but the Avengers put that threat down fast, as they had the others, along with wasting time on the false alarm calls, like the one where some tenants in Queens found a kid’s plastic ray gun in the trash and flipped out.   

On the Christmas front, Steve must have visited every children’s hospital and shelter in the five boroughs, bringing sacks of gifts and spreading cheer. The rest of the team took turns joining him on these excursions, including Tony, who would never get tired of the way a kid’s face could light up at the sight of Iron Man, even the sickest of kids, the kind who could break your heart, the ones who reminded you what a waste of life energy it was to be a self-centered prick.

Steve also spent more time at the Veteran’s Center, caught up in the holiday activities they had going, as if he didn’t spend enough time there with his new best buddy Sam. Tony blamed Coulson for that one. Phil was the one who recommended Sam Wilson as someone for Steve to talk to after all the emotional shit that got dredged up for him on Not-Figi Isle. And sure, the counseling sessions turned out to be a good thing for Steve, and Tony loved him too much to begrudge him the support for his very real PTSD. But really? Coulson couldn’t come up with anyone else suited for the job? Anyone who wasn’t quite as fit and fine? Maybe a portly, balding senior with hair growing out of his ears? At least someone not former military with a do-gooder enthusiasm and earnestness that rivaled Steve’s? No, Coulson found the African American version of Steve Rogers, and the two hit it off like gangbusters, the partnership extending beyond the parameters of Steve’s sessions and even his volunteering at the center. The two of them put their heads together, along with Coulson—yeah, why is he so damn helpful again?—and came up with the Wingman Project. The project was still in its infancy, but Steve had already pledged to sink practically all the money Tony’s lawyers and accountants squeezed out of the U.S. Government and SHIELD’s coffers as remuneration for Steve’s seven-plus decades of service to his country. The Wingman Project was important work, no argument there. The deplorable way the country takes care of its vets could not go unnoticed for long by someone like Steven Captain America Rogers. The project’s goal: find ways for vets to mentor other vets, while also providing job training, housing, and needed mental healthcare. “Wingmen” would help former service men and women regain their sense of purpose through team charity work, which had the added benefit of providing the camaraderie they had grown used to in their service years and were sorely missing in their return to civilian life.

Tony would have proudly donated funds for their worthy cause, but it was important to Steve to do this himself, feeling the money he had gained in restitution for his military sacrifices rightfully needed to be given back to his comrades in arms who weren’t as fortunate as him in their post-military life. The fact that he considered himself “fortunate”—after being experimented upon, used, and abandoned to an icy, hellish limbo for decades, only be thawed and wound up like a toy soldier to be sent back into battle again—said a lot about who Steve Rogers was as a man.

So, currently, with his money tied up in the Wingman Project, Steve’s sources of income were the pittance SHIELD paid—and Tony Stark, which all worked out as far as he was concerned since he kind of got off on being Steve’s sugar daddy. Not that he would ever _tell_ him that. And Tony had also come up with a plan to manage his Sam Wilson problem _and_ cross Thor off his Christmas list at the same time. Damn, he was a genius. Well, he already knew as much, but sometimes he even amazed himself.

“How is inviting Sam to Christmas dinner a gift for Thor?” Steve had asked when Tony let him in on the gift idea.

“Oh, trust me. There’s nothing Thundar would like better than a chance to get more up close and personal with Sam Wilson. Even you have to have noticed how often he finds excuses to come to the Vet Center with you, and how much ogling he does around him. He is warm for that man’s form.”

Steve looked uncertain. “I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, he does ask me a lot of stuff about Sam. But still. I’m not sure that’s an appropriate Christmas gift. You can’t give somebody a person. I don’t even know if Sam would be interested.”

“Leave all that to me. The right seating, a strategic placing of mistletoe, a short course in all the right moves for Thor—”

“From you? The master Lothario, right?”

Dangerous waters alert! Tread lightly. Talk faster.

“I just meant you could fill him in on some of the things Sam likes, things they might have in common.”

“How many people have things in common with Thor?” Barton asked

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Tony glared at him, having forgotten he was in the room.

“I don’t know, Tony.” Steve was shaking his head.

Tony flipped his palms up in surrender, though he had not yet begun to fight. “Sure, okay, whatever you say. I’m trying to make my gifts more personal and thoughtful and I can’t come up with anything more personal than a date with a guy he finds hot. But we’ll go with what you got. What are we giving Thor?”

Steve looked down uncomfortably, shifting from one foot to the other. “Well, I, uh, I know he likes socks. I got him some Christmasy ones. With reindeers.”

“Okay, socks it is.”

“No, wait, Tony. Socks?” Steve vacillated. “What kind of gift is socks? Maybe you’re right.”

Tony was ready to throw something to wipe the smart-ass smirk off Barton’s face before Steve saw it. And, thankfully, he had the sense to not utter his comment until after Steve had left the room. “Killing two birds with one Christmas stone. Gotta hand it to you, Stark, even if you are a paranoid asshole. Sam Wilson is not your competition.”

“Shut up, Barton.”

Yeah, so the Christmas season moved jollily along. Tony got stuck watching more Christmas movies, cartoons, and specials than he ever thought he could stomach, and drank enough hot cocoa to turn into a cocoa bean. Took everything he had to stay on the winning side of his waged battle with gluey glitter, but he did develop quite a fondness for mistletoe. Now that was a Christmas tradition he could get behind. He had the tower filled with it, even carrying some in his pockets, car, and a special compartment in the Iron Man suit. Got him out of quite a few jams with Steve, especially those not-so-rare times his mouth moved faster than his brain; sort of a green, leafy ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.

Tony even found himself participating in some of the touristy New York Christmas traditions. He sat through the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City slumped in the seat with this collar and scarf pulled up so no one would notice him sleeping, which didn’t appear to curtail Steve’s enjoyment of the show any. The part of the evening Tony got the biggest kick out of was listening to Steve’s stories of appearing at the Music Hall so many years before as the Star Spangled Man with the Plan. Tony had seen some vintage pictures of that time (okay, maybe he hoarded them in the drawer of his nightstand), but Steve had never talked about it before. Even now, he was pretty self-conscious telling the story, but as they strolled along Fifth Avenue holding hands and taking in the Christmas display windows (dressed in enough bulky clothes and ridiculous fur-trimmed hats to assure their privacy, though, truth-be-told, Tony was the one that got recognized most on the street, being the media whore he had always been), Steve was able to laugh about the whole thing and even look back with some fondness. He was pleased at how much of the original architecture remained at Radio City Music Hall, always quietly soothed when something bore resemblance to what he remembered, as if, for that brief moment, he fit better into this world. As they shared a hot pretzel from one of the street venders, Steve reminisced about what it was like being the star attraction at the famous building he had only ever glimpsed from the outside as a kid.

“Maybe, if this whole superhero thing doesn’t work out, you can consider a career in show biz,” Tony suggested. “Oooh, maybe you could be the first male Rockette? You certainly have the legs for it.”

“No thanks.” Steve offered Tony the last bite of the pretzel, his expression sobering. “Colonel Phillips was disappointed I let myself get turned into a glorified chorus girl.”

Tony could feel the grief and pain beneath the simple statement. “Well, you showed them all, didn’t you? Just like you have your whole life. You’ve got nothing to regret, Steve Rogers.”

“Everyone has regrets.”

“True. But this isn’t the night for regrets.” Tony squeezed Steve’s hand tighter.

“You’re right.” Steve smiled. “I love you.”

Tony could feel himself beaming brighter than the Christmas displays. Where was some mistletoe when you needed it? Oh, hell, he kissed Steve anyway.

The next night, he rented out the skating rink at Rockefeller Center after it had closed to the public, figuring it would be a good way for the team to check off another overrated Christmas experience without too much fuss and attention. Turned out Steve wasn’t a big fan of ice skating. Duh. Steve not liking ice. Should have thought that one through a bit more, but it wasn’t a complete bust. Steve appreciated the gesture and never tired of looking at the big weed in Rock Center or watching the dancing snowflake show on the façade of the Saks building across the street. The group ended the evening squished into their big booth at George’s a few hours before sunrise, drinking coffee and cocoa and laughing about the ridiculous figures Thor had carved into the ice with his wild skating style. Later that morning, Thor was scheduled to dress like an Asgardian Elf to help give out presents at the Breakfast with Santa bash being held at the shop for needy kids. George donned the red suit, which was pretty appropriate considering the guy was old enough to have gone to school with Saint Nick. Tony footed the bill for the shindig, but hadn’t planned on attending—only he did. In fact, he wound up helping serve the bulk of the food alongside George’s daughters, since the old coot was using the “I’m Santa” excuse to get out of working. The kids had a good time, stuffing their faces with free grub and scamming Santa for armloads of gifts. In between, they got a bow and arrow demonstration from Hawkeye himself, some rides on Thor-Elf’s back, and plenty of photo ops with Captain America, who looked almost as happy as the kids.

Despite the busy December schedule, Tony didn’t slack on his gift procuring. In fact, he was pretty proud of how well he did in that department, actually looking forward to Christmas Eve so he could receive his much-deserved acclaim as Gift Giver Extraordinaire. But a gift he didn’t buy turned out to be one of his favorites.

“Hey, Nick,” Tony greeted when the director showed up at the Christmas Eve gathering at the tower. “Listen, I wanted to let you know my shoppers picked out something amazing for you—an all-expenses-paid weeklong in-patient stay at the Tranquility Psychology Center for the Treatment of Pathological Liars, oh, and a bullet-proof Ferrari—but Steve wanted me to go a more personal route with the gift giving this year, so I put the kibosh on the Ferrari, and went with what Steve picked. Because we’re a couple, you know? We give gifts _together_. So enjoy the gloves we got you. Ooops. Did I let that slip? Ho-ho-ho.”

Okay, maybe it was shitty, but Santa must have closed the Naughty List for the season, so Tony figured he was safe. Besides, Steve had gone to a lot of trouble to pick out those gloves. Who was Tony to deny him the opportunity to give them?

Tony was relieved Steve agreed to using the common floor for the dinner party, rather than cramming thirty-plus people into Steve’s apartment kitchen. Steve did insist the entire staff of the tower got off for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, though, and paid catering was apparently not traditionally Christmas enough, so Steve, along with help from Phil, Clint, and Thor—the new Asgardian Rachel Ray—prepared the meal. This meant Tony barely saw Steve at all the days leading up to Christmas, which he hated, but it gave him time to perfect his gift. Steve’s gift was the one he had sweated the most. Turned out, once the inspiration hit and he worked out the zillion details that sought to impede him, he nailed it. At least, he thought he did. Yeah, he did. No way he didn’t ace this. He was totally the man. The Christmas Man. Mister Christmas. Tony Christmas. Yeah. He liked the sound of that. Tony Christmas was going to be Steve’s hero for sure.

Unless it backfired.

_No. No way. You got this, Stark._

“I got this, right, J?” he had asked that morning as he was wrapping—wrapping for Christ’s sake. He’d never wrapped a present in his life. What was the point of covering something with gaudy paper and tape anyway? And if something needed to be wrapped for convention’s sake, there were people skilled at the craft. Among Tony’s shoppers, several had won awards for their wrapping artistry. Tony was a master mechanic, not a wrap master. Yet, there he sat on the floor of his lab, torn paper from discarded attempts strewn across every surface, tape stuck to his pants, sleeves, and fingers.

“I believe there are several lumps and bulges along the seams of the paper, sir.”

“I don’t mean the wrapping. Shit, JARVIS, don’t be such a critic.” Tony tore down the middle of the manically grinning snowman paper to start again. “I meant the gift.”

“You have accounted for every detail in procuring—”

“Will he _like_ it? That’s what I’m asking.”

“I calculate an eighty-two percent probability that Captain Rogers will respond favorably.”

“Eighty-two? What the fuck, JARVIS?” He swatted at Dummy, who kept approaching him with a cutting tool to snip the long roles of paper. “Cut it out, will ya? You’re going to stab me. And I gotta do this myself. It’s part of the rules.”

“I do not believe there are actually rules, sir.”

“Screw that. Why only eighty-two? This gift is perfect.”

“It is difficult to factor emotional response, however, I believe there is a feasible possibility the emotions engendered from your gift will be those of sadness and despair.”

“Sadness and despair! Now you tell me this?” Tony balled the wad of torn paper in his fists and threw it across the floor, then picked up the cardboard roll and bopped Dummy with it. “Back off.”

“In fact, sir, I pointed out the uncertainty when you first embarked upon this project.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah. Stop being Scrooge. What the hell do you know about Christmas, anyway?”

_What the hell do I know about Christmas is the bigger question. Did I fuck this up?_

Panicking, Tony considered summoning Thor for another Christmas huddle, but decided against it. If he was wrong, he couldn’t stand gaping at that smug Asgardian mug. Maybe Coulson? Coulson knew shit. Or Barton? He knew Steve pretty well. No. Not asking any of them. _I’m the one who loves Steve. I’m the one who knows him._

But if Tony knew him so well, how did he end up eliciting _the face_ at the start of all this Christmas business?

_No, that was weeks ago. Fuck that. This is right. I got this._

Because, really, zero options. It was Christmas Eve. What the hell other gift could he come up with, without using shoppers, at this point?

“This is going to be a spectacular success,” he decided, unrolling another foot of paper. “I am an adult-onset Christmas prodigy. Christmas Mark 1 will be my finest hour.”

As the day wore on, Tony’s confidence see-sawed, but currently he was on an upswing. The evening was going well and Steve was having a great time. Tony was coasting on his big score from Thor’s present. The guy nearly tripped over his own massive feet when Sam Wilson showed up at the gathering. Tony arranged for them to be seated next to each other at the dining table—holding up a _Merry Christmas, Thundar!_ banner behind Sam’s head as they sat, ensuring he got full credit, even though it earned him laser-eyed reproach from Steve. Undaunted, Tony slapped Sam on the back, cupping his shoulder as he leaned over him.

“Hey, Sam. Good to see you. Thanks for coming.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks for the invite.” Sam looked taken aback and maybe suspicious, which made sense since Tony had barely spoken three words to him on the few occasions they’d breathed the same air. Possible Sam _might_ have noticed the jealous daggers Tony had slung his way previously, or picked up on Tony’s previous dismissive attitude towards him despite his burgeoning friendship with Steve, but big deal. New day.

“I’ve been reading about your participation in the EXO-7 Falcon project with the Air Force. Good stuff.”

“You just happened to read about a top-secret military project?”

“Yeah, I do that. I think my buddy Thor here would be fascinated to hear all about that. Both of you being flyboys and all. I mean, don’t worry, he’s cool. His planet is shitloads ahead of ours when it comes to tech, so it’s not like he’d want to steal any secrets. And you’ve got Director Fury right across the table—how you doing, Nick? Enjoying those port wine cheese balls? Made those special for you. Yeah, anyway, Fury’s the big cheese with SHIELD and I’ve discussed the possibility of bringing you on board. With your service record and experience, you’d be a great fit. After I upgrade the Falcon gear, of course. Promising idea. Crap execution. Typical military.”

“On board? What? Why would—”

“Hey, it’s Christmas. Plenty of time to talk shop another night. For now, enjoy the food and get to know your future teammate, here. You’ll probably be working together a lot. You know. Avengers Air Support. You two have a lot in common, isn’t that right, Thor?”

Thor didn’t help his cause by knocking over his water glass and sending a third of his silverware to the floor with his meaty elbow while stammering for a good thirty seconds only to come up with, “Indeed” as his response. Damn, the guy had it bad. There may have actually been little pink hearts shining in his eyes. Tony was going to have to find time to help Thundar bone up on his romantic moves or this relationship was going to crash and burn before it ever soared.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked when Tony took his seat beside him. “Since when is Sam being considered for The Avengers Initiative? And why do I have to sit all the way over here? The only people Sam knows are Clint, Phil, and I, but you made sure none of us are sitting near him. I should sit on that end of the table.”

“It’s all good,” Tony assured, passing Steve a bowl of potatoes.

“Who put you in charge of seating anyway?”

“My food. My table. Makes me the boss.”

“You’re the boss of the table?” Steve’s expression was a mixture of exasperation and amusement, a look Tony got a lot. “Okay. Then I’m the boss of the meat.” Steve snatched the plate from Tony’s hand before he was able to get any. “Since I cooked it.”

Undaunted, Tony grinned. “Baby, you can boss my meat any day.” He shivered exaggeratedly. “Oooh, just saying that has my meat interested. What do you say we ditch this crowd and—”

“Here.” Steve shoved the plate back at him. “Just eat. Stop talking.”

Tony was happy to eat. The food was delicious. He never did manage to stop talking, though, except when his mouth was full. But the dinner appeared to be a success nonetheless. The post-dinner activities went on way too long for Tony’s taste. He was anxious to get rid of most of these people and get to the real gift giving. Instead, he got stuck mingling with George and his brood, folks from SHIELD whose names he couldn’t keep straight, a couple of Stark Industries execs who he had no recollection of inviting—then again, when did any of these people get invited? Talking to Madison was always interesting, and her new girlfriend was a real firecracker and a lot of laughs. He managed to be civil to Rhodey because it was Christmas, and mostly because Steve wanted him to. Truth be told, he missed their friendship, but was still too pissed to forgive and forget yet. Maybe next Christmas.

Pepper was there, but sans the tennis player. Or was he a golfer? Bowler? Some sport that wasn’t really a sport. Whatever. He was nowhere to be found. She was cagey when he asked her about him, which was odd. Odder was how much she chatted with Happy. They were practically joined at the hip all evening. What was that about?

“What’s that about?” he asked Phil, pointing his glass toward Happy and Pepper, who was laughing way too merrily at something he said. “He’s not that interesting. Or funny. Why is she laughing like that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have a listening device.”

“You’re right. I should ask JARVIS. JARVIS what—”

“Really?” Phil asked. “Doing secret surveillance on your Christmas guests? Is that the tone you want to set tonight?”

“How are these my guests? I don’t remember inviting _anyone_. Doing this Christmas thing with Steve is one thing. And yes, I was aware that would end up including the rest of our team of freeloaders, but how did the rest of this bunch get in here? And when are they leaving?”

“Pouting is not attractive on a grown man.”

“I’m not pouting,” Tony pouted.

“I can’t believe you’re not aware of the social aspects of Christmas.”

“The kind of socializing I used to do on Christmas involved a lot of booze and loose women. Or men. Or both.”

“This is better, then,” Phil decided with one of those nods of wisdom things he did. “You’re sharing your first Christmas with the man you love. And it’s his first Christmas since he came out of the ice. And he wants to share that with you. Pretty special, if you ask me.”

“I see what you’re doing. Okay, fine. I’ll play nice. But if these people don’t hit the road by midnight, I’m having JARVIS sound the fire alarms. Right now, I gotta go keep Thor from tanking with Wilson. He’s practically drooling on the man’s shirt.”

_Christmas is a pain in my ass._

~0~0~0~


	5. Chapter 5

“That was really nice,” Steve said with a soft smile, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist. “Everyone had a great time. But I’m glad it’s just us, now.”

“Yeah, just _us_ ,” Tony muttered as he looked over his shoulder into the living room of the apartment packed full of Avengers. From the smell of it, Thor was already burning cookies in the kitchen. Barton and Coulson were finishing stacking gifts under the tree and JARVIS was piping in the incessant Christmas music that Tony couldn’t wait to kiss goodbye for another year. But on the subject of kissing, Steve was under the mistletoe and Tony took full advantage, cock-blockers be damned. Steve cooperated fully, which was a gift in itself. Maybe mistletoe could stay around into the spring? At least until Valentine’s Day.

Thor was the one who eventually interrupted. “Is it not time for the exchange of gifts to commence?” he bellowed, shaking the present in his hand like an eager eight-year-old.

Tony would have been pissed, but he was anxious for the gift part, too. And terrified.

 _I got this. I got this. I got this_.

Steve and Tony had barely seated themselves on the couch when Thor tore into the box, shredding the wrap, box, and tissue gleefully, roaring with delight at the assortment of socks he now clutched in his massive hands. “Foot coverings of whimsical design. Men of snow! Canes of candy! _Jultomten_ in his sleigh! Splendid!”

He wasted no time whipping off shoes and foot coverings of regular design to yank the socks over his huge feet, putting each pair one over the other, increasingly delighted with each subsequent result. Then he began what could only be described as an Asgardian moonwalk across the length of the living room, twirling and dancing joyously.

“Looks like a score with the socks, baby.”

Steve was laughing, clearly proud of his gift selection. “I told you he likes socks.”

“Who’dathunk.”

“Think he liked your present better, though,” Steve confided, grinning.

“ _Our_ present. Which means I get half credit for the socks, too.”

“My friends, I thank you.” Thor bent over the couch, wrapping meaty arms around both of them and squeezing until they nearly fused.

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. You like the socks. Can we breathe now? There are more presents to open.”

Thor being Thor took that as a cue to demolish the wrapping on all of his gifts in turn, going apeshit over everything from the exotic twig thing Bruce must have dug up from some third world country to the case of premium coffee blends from Phil and Clint—hell, Tony would have liked that gift. Maybe he’d swipe some when the big guy wasn’t looking. Probably the best gift of the night for Thor came from Nat—a cookbook called _A Man, a Can, a Plan: 50 Guy Meals Even You Can Make_. Well, it wasn’t exactly Chef Emeril, but the tips and recipes in there looked to be Thor-proof, so maybe they’d eaten their last burnt cookie of the season.

Natasha seemed to genuinely like the painting Steve did for her—how not? Steve made it. Tony contributed the expensive mounting and frame, making them two for two on the gift giving scorecard. Okay, maybe nobody was keeping score.

Except Tony. And so far he was rocking this Christmas thing.

Bruce gave Nat some sort of Russian trinket/junk box that looked to have meaning to her, but Tony wasn’t interested enough to pay much attention. He missed what Barton, Coulson, and Thor gave her, having gotten up to take a piss so he’d be ready for when people opened more of his stuff.

Phil was impressed with the custom-made, one-of-a-kind Tony Stark-designed shoe collection and didn’t even seem creeped out by the fact that Tony had had JARVIS extract detailed foot measurements while Phil was sleeping, even though Steve worried he would be.

Steve’s addition to the present was inside one of the shoes. He had managed to replace all the vintage Captain America trading cards, the ones that Fury had splattered with blood to trick the Avengers into believing they were in the agent’s pocket when Loki skewered him, following that up with another lie in allowing them to believe Phil was dead. Why was Fury invited here tonight? Oh, yeah. Steve. In fact, Steve got Fury to help him figure out where collectable cards could be found and acquired, believing the director making some amends for his deed would be good karma all around for the group, especially at Christmas. And, at Tony’s insistence, Steve signed all the cards, despite feeling self-conscious doing it. Phil was speechless and, for a second, looked more like the thirteen-year-old boy who hung Captain America posters on his wall than the unflappable seasoned handler of the Avengers.

Tony notched another win on the Team Rogers-Stark Christmas scorecard in his mind. This was going well. He had this. Steve was going to love his present.

_He is, right? Yeah, I got this._

Coulson and Barton were planning to exchange their gifts to each other in private, which thankfully moved this gift thing along. From what he overheard, Bruce and Natasha also had other gifts that weren’t for public viewing. Well, shit. Tony wondered briefly if he should wait and give Steve his present when they were alone, but nixed the idea immediately. Tony Christmas was getting _full_ credit for this one. Still, did the rules state couples gave public gifts _and_ private gifts? Nobody told him that. Why the hell was this Christmas business so damned complicated?

He mustered as much interest as he could watching Bruce open a few dusty books from Coulson and a Hulk action figure with a Hawkeye figure glued to its back from Clint, which actually made him laugh. Nat gave Barton some kick-ass arrows imported from Russia, which pissed Tony off because A) They weren’t Stark Tech, and B) Didn’t the rules clearly state weaponry was not in keeping with the spirit of Christmas? He considered objecting, but Natasha was glaring at him as if she could hear his thoughts. Besides, Steve’s fingers had slid into his and squeezed. Steve’s hand was warm and relaxed. Nice. Steve was content. _The face_ hadn’t made an appearance all night. Instead, Steve’s eyes twinkled like the lights on the tree. This was going better than Tony could have planned.

Barton appeared to like his specially designed towels. Okay, he was about as excited over them as a dude was going to get looking at some bath rags. Tony decided Thor may have steered him wrong on that gift, but turned out Steve saved the win for their team. He might have started out on the wrong foot, but he eventually returned the ripped Ravens jersey, replacing it with a Packers one. Barton loved the Packers and it was an Aaron Rodgers jersey— _Rodgers_ printed on the back in huge white letters, which was clearly the greatest name in the world, even if you didn’t give a shit about football—or didn’t know how to spell Rogers properly. Topping it off, Tony got Madison to work her magic and get the jersey signed by the quarterback himself. Win-win. And bonus points added for the fact that Phil really liked Barton’s towels because they were very “Clint” to him, which maybe was the point of the whole towel thing. Who knows? Whatever. Another win on the scorecard. Christmas Mark 1 was moving along swimmingly.

Until it came to a dead halt.

Thundar had decided that the ideal gift for Coulson was an ode. A freakin’ ode. Really? Okay, fine. An ode. But couldn’t he have scrawled it on some thousand-year-old buffalo hide and stuffed it in a bottle or something? Isn’t that what you did with odes? _Noooo_. Not Thor. Instead, he climbed atop the coffee table and proceeded to recite his ode:

“Bow most humble,

men brave as bruins,

seamed in glory

from wound-blades past—

to Son of Coul,

steeped in wisdom,

who stands and fights

unto the last. . . .”

The words began to fade until Steve’s elbow into his ribs roused him around the time Thor was winding up. He had actually drooled onto Steve’s sweater. Raising his head and feigning the modicum of interest he could muster, he listened to Thor wind down.

“. . . whom Hel not bide.

Hail, Son of Coul—

Midgardian’s pride!”

Noting the weird mix of humble gratitude and burning embarrassment on Coulson’s face, along with Barton’s sour expression at being reminded of Thor’s brother’s hand in nearly robbing him of his husband, Tony jumped to his feet, applauding wildly. “Awesome. Best ode I’ve ever heard. JARVIS did you record all that? Surely, we have to replay that every Christmas right before _The Grinch_. Okay, climb on down, big guy. Don’t want to hog all the gift-giving spotlight. Who’s next?”

Unfortunately, Thor decided it was still his turn, ducking under the tree to retrieve what looked to be a hand-carved wooden box, and handing it Tony. Tony caught himself before his smart mouth spoke the words burning his tongue: _What? No ode for me?_ With his luck, Thor would have felt obligated to improv an ode on the spot. _Just open the damn wooden box and keep this moving._

“Wow, nice rock.” The contents of the box looked like a cross between Kryptonite and a chunk of ice Yukon Cornelius might have chipped off with his pickaxe during his perpetual search for gold. “J?”

“The composition is mostly unknown, sir, but I do detect traces of radiation—”

“Ah, there we go.” Tony slammed the box shut. “This is going right on my desk, front and center. Thanks, Thor. JARVIS, send Dummy up here with the special lead box I use to keep things on my desk. Chop-chop.”

Thor bent back and shook with laughter, then clapped the palm of his hand against Tony’s back, nearly sending Tony and the alien rock through the window. “Friend Tony, you are most humorous.”

“Yeah, that’s me, barrel of laughs.” When Steve reached to take the box from Tony to get a better look, Tony snapped, “Don’t touch that.”

“I assure you, this gift is safe,” Thor grinned.

“Of course, of course. I just don’t want Steve breaking it. Doesn’t know his own strength. You get that, don’t you, Thundar? I wouldn’t want my special rock broken.”

“This is no rock,” Thor replied as Dummy burst through the door clutching the protective lead box.

“No, this is my special present from my good buddy, Thor,” Tony said as he dumped the rock, box and all, into the protective lead container before darting into the kitchen to scrub his hands. When he returned, he wiped his still-damp palms on his pants before clapping them together. “Now, where were we?” Realizing Dummy was still spinning in circles near the door, he called out, “Get that thing down to . . . the special room where I keep all my special gifts. Come on, move. JARVIS?”

“Understood, sir.”

“So, what the hell is that thing?” Clint asked as Dummy retreated. He sounded almost as dubious as Tony. “Because if that’s some crazy Asgardian tech—”

“Guys, it’s Christmas,” Steve interjected. “Do you really think Thor is going to give Tony something dangerous?”

“A point could be made anything from Asgard winds up being dangerous, intentional or not,” Barton countered, saving Tony from having to say it.

“My friends,” Thor implored, holding his hands upward in a calming gesture. “I apologize for the discord my gift has engendered on this most auspicious eve of celebration. I assure it will cause no harm, but perhaps it best we not speak of it again this night. Clearly, the meaning behind this offertory is best left for another day. We shall move forward with the next gift.” Thor bent beneath the tree and pulled out a conventionally wrapped box. “For Steven.”

“Is there a radioactive rock with mystery meaning in there, too?” Tony questioned as Steve reached to take the box from Thor’s hand. “Are we going to need Hazmat suits?”

“Tony, stop. It’s Christmas.”

“Baby, they can be Hazmat suits with reindeers painted on them, as long as you’re safe.”   

“No need,” Thor chuckled. “Steven’s gift is of a far more traditionally Midgardian origin.”

Tony and Clint exchanged dubious looks and Nat sat up straighter, her hand always close to whatever weapon she had stashed beneath her green velvet micro dress. Undaunted, Steve carefully unwrapped his gift, barely tearing the paper in the process, as if even the paper itself were something to be treasured. Opening the now-uncovered box, Steve reached in and drew out a large, round Christmas ornament featuring a picture of Elmo holding hands with Cookie Monster, and beneath it the words: _Christmas is for Friendship._ Painted over Cookie’s head in a manner that indicated it was hand-done, not part of the original composition of the ornament, was the word _Teddy_ , and over Elmo’s head, the word _Stevie_.

 _What the fuck! Not fair. He gives me the lame-o towel idea and saves this for himself._ Steve was already getting dewy about the damn thing. Everyone in the room immediately got the significance, nodding in that drippy-sentimental way as Steve stood to hang his gift in a prominent place on the tree.

“Thank you, Thor,” Steve said softly, grinning shyly before adding, “Teddy.”

_Son of a bitch. Score one for Team Thundar._

Tony had intended to save his gift to Steve for last, knowing it would be the highpoint of the evening, but he began to worry about being upstaged. He gave half a thought to whipping it out now, but before he had the chance, Thor went to “retrieve” his gift for Clint. Next thing Tony knew, a four-legged blur of black and white fur with a big purple bow around its neck ran past him and headed straight for Clint. What the hell? How did it even know it was for Clint? Was this a set up?

“You can’t give a dog,” Tony protested. “It’s a living thing.”

“You gave a person,” Steve reminded before getting up to go to the other end of the couch where Clint was being pounded with a lapful of ecstatic dog.

Then Thor launched into one of his blowhard stories, yadda yadda scoured the circuses of the Midwest blah blah, found this poor beast cast off due to an injury sustained to his leg, no longer able to dance upon the “balls of folly.”

“An injured dancing circus dog. Are you for fucking real? Where the hell have you been hiding him? And was this a bogus injury? His leg looks fine to me.”

“I have aided his healing, but his heart remained saddened. I knew the despair of mishandling and rejection would not truly heal until he was united with a kindred spirit.”

“Seriously?” Tony griped, not that anyone heard him. They were all busy fawning over the goofy looking white-faced mutt with a black patch around his eye that made him look like a dog-pirate. And Barton. Shit, he was practically melting, like Timmy being reunited with Lassie. Damn it, was that a tear standing in the tough guy’s eye?

“He’s always wanted a dog,” Phil pointed out. “Just wasn’t practical.”

“Clinton has a tower of people here now to help care for his pet. All will be well for Clinton and Arrow.”

“Arrow? His name is Arrow? Am I trapped in a fucking Hallmark Christmas movie? Are you people serious?”

“You don’t like dogs?” Steve asked, a small hint of _the face_ poking through his goopy dog smile.

 _Oh, fuck me_.

Tony threw his hands to his head, yanking handfuls of hair until surely it was all standing on end. “Okay, that’s it. Can we get back to the point here? There are other people who have gifts to give besides Thor. Are you done hogging the limelight, Thundar? Can we get on with things?”

“I was unaware there was a time constraint.”

“What’s the hurry, Tony?” Clint asked around the tongue that was currently painting his face with nasty dog spit. “I was going to get Arrow some water.”

“No water. No getting up. Nobody leaves. We’re exchanging presents and it’s _my_ turn.”

“Tony, maybe we should—”

“No.” Tony cut Steve off. “No more talking. And no more _face_. Banner, open the damn present we got you _now_.”

“Oh, goody,” Bruce said drolly.

“Holly Jolly Christmas,” Phil laughed.

“What face?” Steve asked, perplexed.

“Oooh,” Clint nodded. “Yeah, I know that _face_. Was he doing that? No wonder Stark is having a Christmas meltdown.”

“What face?”

“Open the fucking box, Banner.”

“I’m opening,” Bruce snapped, ripping the box in half.

“I need another drink,” Natasha grumbled, standing, which caused the mutt to start barking wildly.

“Easy, Arrow,” Barton soothed, tucking the dog under one arm. “This is your new family. Admittedly, they’re a lot to take in on initial contact, but it’ll all be good.”

“There’s nothing in this damn box,” Bruce griped.

“Of course there isn’t,” Tony replied. “It wouldn’t fit in a box.”

“Then why did you make me open this?”

“For effect. You gotta unwrap something, right? Isn’t that part of the Christmas rules?”

“Tony, I keep telling you there aren’t rules.”

“Save your breath, Steve,” Coulson advised, shaking his head.

“So you got me . . . nothing?”

“Ha! Not even close. Cue it up, J.”

“At once, sir.”

The images filling the room would have had better effect if the mutt wasn’t barking at them, but Tony continued, undaunted. “I give you the newly designed Hulk Hideaway! Located in sub-basement seven, it’s five layers of steel-reinforced concrete, within an inner and outer shell of silica-nanofibers that are fifteen times stronger than steel.” Tony clapped his hands to collapse the 3D technical schematic, only to immediately throw them wide again and, through the magic of science, pulled something a lot cooler than a rabbit out of his JARVIS hat. “Check out the padded floors, low lighting, the 110-inch ultra HDTV screens for playing soothing cartoons or music. Look in the corners—the world’s biggest, strongest bean bags ever stitched together. The same people who’re making the Mars Lander inflatables crafted these out of a new space-rated fabric that’s twenty times more durable than kevlar—and in lots cooler colors.” Tony snagged a section of the wall, and snapped his fingers to enlarge it. “See? Steve’s painting the walls and, when he gets done, there will be a mural of the island where you guys had your Hulk play-day on Not-Fiji Isle. The whole room is perfectly designed to soothe the inner beast within.”

Once the presentation was complete and the projected images faded, Tony prepared to take his bow, but the room got weirdly quiet. Even the dog stopped barking. Not the fanfare Tony was expecting. He had been pretty fucking proud of coming up with the concept for this gift, but no one looked to have anything to say. The damn mutt present got a bigger reaction.

“You don’t like it?” he complained, gaping at Banner.

Bruce was still clutching the remnants of the empty box and torn wrapping, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, adjusting his glasses for the third time. Nat reached to put a hand on his back and rub a soothing circle. He cleared his throat a few times, finally uttering a croak that sounded like, “S’perfect,” before promptly darting from the room, heading for the john.

“What the hell?”

“Tony, it’s okay,” Steve assured, blue eyes shining, voice warm. He came over to put his arm around him. “You did great.”

“He’s right,” Nat concurred, wrapping her arms around herself in a self-soothing gesture. “Aced it, Stark.”

“He didn’t look happy,” Tony puzzled. Weren’t gifts supposed to make people happy? Wasn’t that the point?

“It’s bigger than happy,” Phil explained. “He’s been looked at as a monster for so long, a part of him identifies with that label. But you just humanized the monster. Accepted him. Comforted him. Made him part of the family. Gave him his own space. Probably a lot for Bruce to take in right now. Give him time.”

“That right?” he asked Steve, who nodded and kissed him gently on the forehead. “So, this was a score then, right?”

Steve laughed. “Sure, cutie. Big score.”

Tony clapped his hands together. “Yes!” More points in the win column.

“This would be a most befitting time for Anthony to open a gift of his own, would it not my friends?”

“I agree,” Coulson added.

“Oh, no. No more mystery rocks. You already gave me a gift, Thundar. Let’s just move along.”

“The gift of which I speak comes not from myself alone, but from the collective.”

“The collective?” Tony grew suspicious. Sounded like more alien crazy shit. He looked toward Steve, who shook his head.

“I wasn’t part of this. They didn’t tell me. I don’t know what it is.”

“Not from Steve. From the rest of us, Stark,” Barton explained. “Kind of hard to shop for the guy who has everything, so we made it a group effort.” Arrow barked and licked the green bow on the box as Natasha got it out from under the tree and handed it to Phil.

“From your family,” Phil said softly as he put the box in Tony’s hands.

This was slowing his momentum, but Tony tried to look grateful. He wasn’t going to earn more points this way, but they all seemed vested in him opening whatever trinket this was. After tearing through the wrap, he pulled out some kind of snow globe with a house inside. _Cute. Radiation-free. Harmless enough._ He shook the globe watching the plastic snowflakes swirl around inside. “Nice. Thanks.”

“There’s more,” Phil pointed out. “That’s just a representation.”

“Of what?”

“The only gift you’d really want for Christmas,” Barton responded. “Time alone. With Steve. Without us horning in.”

“It’s a trip, Stark,” Natasha explained. “You’re going to be ringing in the New Year in the Swiss Alps. We let Coulson select the remote chalet and all the amenities. There are photographs inside the box.”

“Plenty of hot springs, hot tubs, fireplaces, and heated furnishings and floors to make Steve comfortable, since he’s not a big fan of the snow and ice, but with ceiling-to-floor windows with a view of the snowy Alps from every room so you’ll remember where you are.” Coulson was looking pretty pleased with himself, which, judging by the amazing photos Tony was now thumbing through, he had earned. He couldn’t have picked a swankier get-away himself and that was saying something.

“Natalie Rushman managed to clear your entire schedule without much difficulty,” Clint laughed, nodding towards Natasha. “And Agents Romanoff and Coulson made certain you’d both be off SHIELD and Fury’s grid during your downtime.”

“Barton has procured an appropriate plane for your travel needs,” Nat added. “Since prepping your jet would have aroused your suspicion, as well as made it harder for you to stay off the grid.”

“I’m going to fly it, too.” Clint put up his hands before Tony could respond. “Don’t worry, I’m just dropping you off. Not staying.”

“They let me wrap the snow globe,” Bruce added upon reentering the room.

“Don’t be modest,” Nat smiled. “You picked out the snow globe.”

“And all the green paper and bows,” Barton pointed out, getting a bark of approval from Arrow.

“And I was given the honor of rolling the . . . .” Thor paused, mid-blowhard sentence, looking towards Clint.

“Bankroll.”

“Ah, yes. Bankroll the entire endeavor.”

Tony burst out laughing, looking at Clint. “You _allowed_ him to pay for all this?”

“Why not?” Clint winked. “It’s a real Midgardian honor to foot the bill.”

“As I have been told from my friend Clinton. I am honored to do this.”

“Besides, those Asgardian trinkets of his are worth a fortune on the black market. Why not put it towards a good Christmas cause?”

“This is . . . wow.” Steve had taken the photos from Tony’s hand and was scanning through them. “Very generous. Thank you all.”

“Hey, it’s my gift,” Tony teased, yanking the photos back. “What makes you think I’m taking you?”

“A little elf told me,” Steve responded, wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist and nibbling his ear.

Tony’s body burned hotter than the hot springs in the photo from just the simple contact and he dared to let his mind wrap around the fact that he was going to _finally_ have Steve all to himself this holiday season. Maybe being on Santa’s good list did pay off after all? He was really starting to like this Christmas stuff. And what a _great_ fucking present! He had to give the whole team points on the present scorecard for this one.

“Pretty great, everybody. Thanks. Just make sure none of you show up there. And Thor, keep all forms of Asgardian moonshine locked away. I don’t want any repeats of the Not-Fiji vacation.”

“As I recall, our Not-Fiji vacation turned out pretty spectacular,” Steve reminded, his nuzzling moving from Tony’s ear down his neck to just the right spot—damn. _Okay, focus Stark. We haven’t even reached the Christmas Climax—er, Finale yet. You didn’t go through all this for nothing._

Squirming out of Steve’s grasp, he reminded, “Hey, hot stuff, Santa is not going to appreciate you being naughty in front of the guests.”

“They’re not guests; they’re always here,” Steve laughed. “Besides, you’re standing under the mistletoe.”

“Technically, eighty-five percent of the places you can stand in this apartment are in a mistletoe zone,” Bruce pointed out.

“Eighty-seven point three,” Tony corrected, “but irrelevant right now. If you guys are done hogging the present spotlight, I’d like to give Steve his gift.”

“Stark-speak for ‘thanks for the overly generous present we got him and now it’s his turn,’ ” Clint interpreted.

“Exactly.” Tony darted under the tree to retrieve the box it took him ninety-five minutes and a half dozen rolls of paper to finally wrap correctly. “Come on, baby-blue. Sit down.”

Steve obliged, sitting on the couch. Tony shooed Barton and his circus mutt over so he could sit beside him. Looking down, he realized his palms had sweated all over the bow, causing it to sag. Steve evidently chose not to notice, taking the gift from Tony’s clammy hands with a shy smile, looking sweetly embarrassed now that all the attention in the room was aimed at him.

This was going to be epic.

Or, the worst failure in the history of Christmas Gift Giving.

No. Epic. Tony was going with epic for sure.

“I am most anxious to lay eyes upon what must be a gift of tremendous distinction, Anthony.”

“I’m pretty interested in seeing this myself,” Coulson concurred, a glimpse of the ‘you better not have fucked this up’ look flashing in his eyes. Natasha looked equally dubious. _Way to bolster a guy’s confidence, team._ _Shit_.

In the four hours—okay, two minutes—it took Steve to meticulously unwrap the box without ripping a single shred of paper, Tony’s heart stopped a half dozen times. His inner selves were arguing so vehemently about whether this was the perfect present or a colossal bust that he was getting a headache listening to them. He was just reaching over to snatch the box from Steve’s hands and run, leaving Christmas and all this insanity in his wake, when Steve finally opened the box.

“You got me . . . dirt?”

“That’s not any dirt.” Steve being Steve smiled appreciatively despite obviously thinking he had received a box full of dirt from his boyfriend for Christmas. Tony reached under the sofa to where he had stashed the more explanatory part of the gift, since he had tried and failed to wrap the blueprints effectively. Ordinarily he’d have gone with a JARVIS projected mega-presentation similar to the Hulk’s Hideaway and not had to wrestle with awkward wrapping at all, but this was Steve, so he opted for old-fashioned blueprints. “The dirt is from the ground that was broken to begin building this.”

Steve slowly unrolled the large documents, blinking twice before his lower lip dropped almost completely from his face. He turned to Tony, his face frozen in an expression that was impossible to read, before looking downward again.

_“It is difficult to factor emotional response, however, I believe there is a feasible possibility the emotions engendered from your gift will be those of sadness and despair.”_

_Shut up, JARVIS. Get out of my head._

Thankfully, Barton crashed the unbearable silence of the moment by demanding, “Well, what the hell is it?”

Steve’s head rose to stare at Tony for an endless moment, then his eyes drew back down to the document he was clutching in his now unsteady hands, his voice rough as he announced, “Plans for the James Buchanan Barnes Youth Center being erected in Brooklyn.”

“It’ll be a place for poor and troubled teens,” Tony added quickly, hoping Steve would see this as a good thing. “It’ll have sports programs, counseling, career advisement, the works. And a significant memorial to a fallen hero who was, himself, just a kid from Brooklyn—someone they can look up to.”

“In Bucky’s name,” Steve muttered, still looking down.

“If that’s okay?” Tony asked nervously. “If all of this is okay with you. I just designed the building and got the permits and put this in the works. The center itself, that’ll be your baby. Any way you want it. Any way you think Bucky would have wanted it.”

“Y-you . . . _you_ want to do this for Bucky?”

Crap. The winning answer here had to be _yes, of course_. _He is an unsung, great American hero_. A jackpot of points were his for the taking if Tony could bring himself to say the right thing. Instead, he looked into Steve’s eyes, which were now looking straight inside him, and told the truth. “I want to do it for _you_. Because he mattered to you. And what matters to you matters to me. That okay?”

Steve nodded, his long lashes glistening. “More than okay.” Steve’s fingers clutched the plans in his hand so tightly it was a wonder the paper didn’t disintegrate. He pulled the wadded clump to his chest and held it there, eyes falling shut.

Panic shot through Tony. _This is the sadness and despair JARVIS warned me about. Shitshitshit. Did I just ruin his Christmas? Dredged up sad shit when he was so happy? What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m not Tony Christmas—I’m Toxic Tony. Fuck me._

“You did fine, Stark.” It was Phil’s hand on his shoulder. Tony looked up to see the rest of the team gathering their gifts and heading towards the door.

“Wait. Where are you guys going? Christmas isn’t over.” Did those words just come out of his mouth?

“I’m anxious to go down and see the Hulk Hideaway.” Bruce was grinning at him like a drunk loon, though he hadn’t been drinking.

“Me, too,” Natasha concurred as she lifted her painting into her arms.

“Gonna walk the dog,” Barton said as he passed, slapping Tony on the back. “Good job, Tony. Night, Steve. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Steve responded, standing now, still clutching the crinkled papers to his chest. “All of you. Thank you. Merry Christmas.”

“But this isn’t over,” Tony protested. Yeah, he wanted them to leave all fucking night, but not _now_. He couldn’t be the cause of the party breaking up, of Steve’s Christmas being ruined. “Don’t go.”

“No worries. We’ll see ya at Christmas breakfast,” Clint laughed as Thor turned to flatten his hand over his heart and bow his head in Tony’s direction, following with a grinning wink.

“A most memorable evening of celebration. You have done well, Anthony.”

“If I did so well, why is everyone making a break for the door like the fire alarm just sounded? What the fuck is going on? Did I screw this up? Somebody let me see the rule book.”

“There are no rules, Tony.” Steve was smiling now. He carefully drew the plans back from his chest and set them down reverently upon the coffee table. “And they’re leaving because they’re smart enough to know I need to be alone with the most wonderful man in the world.”

“Wonderful? Me, right? You’re talking about me?”

“Of course I am.” Steve came closer as the last Avengers exited and the door to the apartment closed softly. His hand came up to cup Tony’s cheek, his normally solid grip unsteady. “I want to say so much to you but I don’t even know where to start.”

Despite evidentiary indications that all this was going his way, Tony hedged his bets. “How ‘bout I start by pointing out you’re standing under another mistletoe?” Kissing could soften any potential blow.

Steve’s eyes raised to the ceiling then back to Tony. “So I am.” He leaned in to press a tender kiss on Tony’s lips. Tony was so hungry for him the little peck was like sounding the dinner bell and he was anxious to dig in. But he sensed something fragile in Steve’s touch, so he kept himself in check.

“You’re an amazing man, Anthony Edward Stark,” Steve whispered against his mouth. Pulling back enough to look into his eyes, he continued, “I feel like I love you with everything I have, but then something happens and I love you more. I don’t even know where the more comes from, because you’ve got it all.” He shook his head as if confused. “You have turned yourself inside out to make this Christmas special.” Steve’s head turned toward the tree and the skyline twinkling through the windows behind it. “I had no idea what Christmas should to be. I was kind of wishing you were right and there were rules. Felt pretty lost and out of step. Like most things, it’s nothing like what I remember. But this . . . this has all been so nice.” The fingers on Tony’s cheek slid up into his hair, feathering softly as Steve turned his gaze back to him. “Once again, you found a way to make me fit in, to belong. At the same time, you acknowledged who I was and where I came from . . . acknowledged who mattered to me. Your gift, Tony. Means everything, really.  I don’t know how to thank you.”

Drunk with relief, Tony wrapped his arms around Steve’s waist, squeezing those buns of steel he adored. “Can I make a few suggestions?”

Steve’s face broke into a huge smile. “Anything you want, cutie. Just name it.”

“Christmas jackpot!” Tony pumped both fists in the air. “Tony Christmas rules! See, JARVIS. I told you to have faith. JARVIS said you wouldn’t like your present.”

“Sir, allow me to review the data files that clearly indicate I did not say Captain Rogers would dislike his gift—”

“Data files? JARVIS, it’s Christmas. Have some sentimentality, will ya? Presents aren’t about keeping score . . . though, if we were keeping score, I totally won.”

“Presents. Oh, no.” Steve suddenly looked troubled. “I didn’t give you your present yet.” His cheeks began to burn red as he looked down uncomfortably. “I can’t give it to you now. Not after what you gave me. It’s too corny. I’m such an idiot.”

“Baby, you’re no idiot. And I like corny. Stop worrying. Just show me. Come on, where’s the box?” Tony moved around the couch, bending down to search under the tree.

“It’s not under there.” Steve drew his hands over his face, looking more uncomfortable and embarrassed. Not acceptable. Tony had built up too much Christmas cred to let whatever this present was ruin it all, especially not when he was this close to getting laid.

“Come on sweetheart. Just give it to me. I’ll love it. Is it socks? You know I love socks. Socks are the best present ever.”

“I wish it were socks,” Steve sighed, growing redder.

“You’re worrying too much about this. Just give it to me. It’ll be fine. This isn’t a contest. Nobody is keeping score. There are no rules to Christmas, you know.” Tony grinned, hoping to jolly Steve into a less-distressed mood.

“It’s in the bedroom. I was . . . I planned to give it to you in private. Oh, gosh.” He balled his fists and punched into the air. “I’m such a jerk. I was totally stumped about what to get you and I let Clint help me. I knew this was a bad idea.”

Tony was quickly connecting the dots. “Private present. In the bedroom. Something that’s making you blush. And Barton suggested it?”

“He said it would be the thing you’d want most.”

“Oh, now you gotta give this to me. Come on. Let’s go.”

“Tony, I can’t—”

“Hey, I’ve been good for Christmas. You said so yourself. Now I want my present. Come on.”

“Okay, okay. But you’ve got to give me a few minutes. It’s not totally . . . ready yet.”

“You’ve got five minutes. Now move it, soldier. Christmas waits for no man.”

_Looks like Christmas is about to get interesting._

~0~0~0~


	6. Chapter 6

Tony waited maybe three minutes, tops, before trying to barge into the bedroom, but Steve knew him well and had locked the door. He could have easily gotten JARVIS to unlock it. Better yet, he could have pounded it down with his cock, which was as hard as Thor’s hammer at the moment. Instead, he settled for thumping impatiently with his fist, figuring it was better to save his cock for more important pounding.

“Come on, Steve. I’m not waiting ‘til next Christmas. Let me in.”

“Give me a minute.”

Steve sounded weirdly flustered, which only got Tony’s mind working double time to provide possible racy images of what his gift might be. Truth be told, he didn’t need a gift, sexy or not. He was so in love with Steve and burning so bad for him, he doubted there was anything that was going to succeed in getting him hotter than he was.

Of course, even Tony Stark could be wrong . . . occasionally.

When the door finally opened, Tony rushed in, but he didn’t see Steve. Then his lover came up from behind, having ducked behind the door, covering Tony’s eyes with his broad hands.

“Oooh, is this going to be kinky?” Tony hummed.

“I don’t want you peeking.”

“I resent that. I am _not_ a peeker,” Tony protested as he attempted to slide his eyes from under Steve’s hands.

“Be patient,” Steve insisted as he nudged Tony to walk forward in the direction of the bed.

“Christmas is not about patience. Even I know that much. Gimme-gimme-gimme.”

“True Christmas spirit, Stark style.” Steve was at least laughing now, instead of sounding tight and nervous. Tony reached around to grab something, figuring feeling was almost as good as seeing, but Steve dodged his grope and pushed him onto the bed.

“It _is_ going to be kinky! I like this! Are handcuffs involved?”

“To- _nee_.”

“JARVIS, I want every second of this documented,” Tony ordered as he tried to turn around to peek, but Steve’s hand on his shoulder kept him facing away.

“Don’t you dare, JARVIS!”

“Oh, come on. It’s _my_ Christmas present. I should get to choose.”

“Behave or I won’t give it to you at all. Now keep your eyes shut for one more minute. _Please_.”

 _Damn it_. He was a sucker for Steve’s pleading. _No fair_. “Okay. Okay. I’ll be good. Eyes are shut until you tell me otherwise.” _Totally not fair_.

Tony rolled onto his back, folding his arms, working up to a full-fledged pout, but he kept his damned eyes shut as requested. “You know, a blindfold could have kept my eyes closed more effectively and been a lot more fun.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Steve was starting to sound tense again and there was some rustling of bags and huffing in frustration. He thought he might have even heard Steve curse.

“Take a deep breath, baby-blue.”

“I feel like a jerk.”

“Let me be the judge of my own present. Can I open my eyes?”

“Wait. JARVIS, I need the music.”

“At once, Captain.”

Tony tried not to wince when the over-played, treacly version of _All I Want for Christmas is You_ began to fill the room. He should have been immune, having had to listen to it ad-nauseam all season. But then Steve told him he could open his eyes, and Tony suddenly had a new favorite song—and favorite image.

Steve was dressed in green and white candy cane striped long johns—no, long johns had more material. Leggings? Body paint? No, definitely skin-tight leggings of some sort. Whatever they were, they clung to every muscle and sinew of his gorgeous lower body like a Christmassy second skin. The cuffs around his ankles were white-fur trimmed. A picture of two bells hanging from a mistletoe branch bulged over his ample package: The scrolled, gold moniker _Jingle Balls_ printed above was priceless. Attached to the low-slung waistband were two red suspenders, which travelled up his bare, sculpted chest and over his shoulders. Attached to the suspenders, covering his nipples, were two red gift bows. Topping the outfit was a green fur elf hat with white trim and a big red pom-pom ball dangling from the long, floppy tip.

Steve was shifting nervously from foot to foot, his face almost as red as the bows on his tits, panicking as he uttered, “Oh, wait! I forgot!” He turned and bent down to dig in one of the three large bags near the closet. From the back angle, Tony could see the velvet gift bow somehow managing to cling right above the curve of his prominently green-striped butt. Tony suspected the bags contained rejected versions of Christmas outfits that Steve was too embarrassed to put on, finally settling on his present ensemble. When Steve stood upright again, he was nervously tearing the cellophane off a peppermint stick—peppermint sticks were one of the greatest inventions of Christmas as far as Tony was concerned—letting the wrap hit the floor as he slid it into his mouth, then dragged it out slowly before asking, “Merry Christmas?”

“Holy fuck me!”

Tony’s eyes actually fogged up the way the lenses on your glasses did after stepping from an air-conditioned room into a humid climate. The jizz that squirted into his shorts was more ample than routine pre-cum, but still left plenty in his tank. Here was a living, breathing wet dream standing in front of him, one with the added bonus of owning his heart and soul along with his groin.

“I know it’s a ridiculous excuse for a Christmas present, especially considering what you got me, but—”

“Shut up,” Tony insisted, bolting from the bed. “Don’t ruin my damned gift. It’s perfect. Best. Fucking. Christmas. Present. Ever!” Tony reached for Steve’s hand, pulling the peppermint stick towards his mouth and suckling on it for a few seconds before throwing it over for Steve’s mouth. He nearly drowned in the minty, delicious kisses, getting dizzier when he pulled back and saw the effects of an erection on Steve’s outfit. The _Jingle Balls_ looked ready to pop. Tony felt his own shit-eating grin attempt to swallow his face.

“You did all this for me, right? Mine.”

“I could _only_ do something like this for you,” Steve responded sincerely. Tony was well aware of what it took for Steve to go through with this. It gave him a hot thrill that, despite their fucking over the last few months, Steve hadn’t lost the shy modesty that was one of his sexiest assets. Tony hungered to tempt him more and more out of his comfort zone, stoked higher each time he enticed Steve to cross another line, because it was only ever for him. _Mine_.

“This is not fucking fair because part of me wants to savor this. Just drool over you in this get-up and whack off until my dick is raw, but the other part of me wants to tear you open like the best-ever Christmas gift that you are and eat you alive.”

“Your present. Your choice.” The impish sparkle in his eyes told Tony that Steve knew exactly how hot that answer made him.

“And you’re adamant JARVIS can’t document this?” he asked, running his hands down Steve’s chest, tweaking his bows. “My present, my choice, right?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to be in the moment?” Steve was slowly undoing Tony’s pants, sliding them down his hips, clearly a distraction tactic, one that was working.

“I’d actually like quite a few moments. You are way too tasty to enjoy only once.” Tony’s hands slid around Steve’s waist, cupping the perfect rear end beneath the silky soft, clinging fabric. “And what’s in the bag? You have more outfits to show me?”

“None that I could bring myself to put on,” Steve laughed.

“JARVIS, send a bottle of the good stuff to Barton’s apartment. Tell him I’m totally re-upping his Christmas gift. Anything he wants. Just name it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know I didn’t pick them?”

“I’m a good guesser. Turn around.” When Steve turned slowly, Tony bit his lip, nearly drawing blood. “I plan to totally over-indulge this Christmas.”

“Finally made your choice?” Steve grinned over his shoulder.

“I’m choosing all of the above.” Tony’s fingers skimmed beneath Steve’s waistband. “Now, get over to the bed so I can fuck these tights right off you. No, wait. I think I’d rather get a blowjob from Santa’s favorite elf. I want to see that ball on your hat bobbing over my balls. No, maybe I should unwrap your bows first? Hey, does a dance come with this outfit? This totally looks like the kind of present that should involve a dance. Maybe with a pole? Or at least a lap dance. Shake those jingle balls.”

“You and Clint really do think alike, but I’m going to tell you what I told him. Haven’t worked myself up to the dancing thing yet.”

“ _Yet_. ‘Yet’ gives me hope. Hey, _this_ could be our Christmas ritual! New outfit every Christmas? And New Year’s? Groundhog’s Day? Election Day?”

“Stay in the moment, lover.”  Steve turned back around and took Tony’s hands, walking backwards, guiding him towards the bed. “If I promise to put this get-up back on for you later, will you go back to your . . . fucking the pants off me idea?”

Tony’s brain short-circuited like it always did when he got Steve hot enough to say ‘fuck.’ He wiped the drool from the side his mouth before enthusiastically agreeing, “You got a deal.”

The pants never actually came fully off. Tony had more fun yanking the candy cane leggings down just enough to expose an action gap and fucking Steve in the entire ensemble, even leaving the bow at the base of his spine because, after all, this was his present, right? He got his blow job, too, though not until after their shower when Steve dutifully re-donned his sexy Christmas ensemble as promised.

But the best part came much later. Earlier? Early Christmas morning? Hell, Tony had lost all awareness of time, caught up in a haze of Christmas bows, fur-trimmed fun, and minty sweetness. Who knew he had been missing out on the true joy of peppermint sticks all these years? Had to be some time after Santa had dropped his last load to all the good boys and girls. Hey, Steve wrapped in bows inside a Santa sack! That had possibilities. Anyway, it was sometime after they had shared a Christmas snack in the kitchen, wrapped together in the same blanket. Tony wasn’t actually cold, but who cared? He was pretty hot actually, especially having washed one of Thor’s burnt cookies down with Steve’s cocoa—oh, and being pressed up against the glorious nakedness of his man. Yeah, he was hot. Not too hot to pay attention, though. Steve talked to him— _really_ talked to him—about Bucky for the first time. Not just quick mentions or the occasional detail about something Tony already knew from the bios. Deeper stuff. And Tony should have won an award for how well he kept his jealousy and resentment at bay and just listened. Actually, it wasn’t hard. He wanted all of Steve, every bit, and when Steve trusted him enough to share those bits—especially the painful ones—Tony managed to step up and be the man Steve deserved. At least, he hoped that was how Steve saw it. Yeah, probably. Because Steve then went on to say how much Tony’s gift meant to him and share a few preliminary ideas for the Youth Center. Part way through, he cut himself off, cupping Tony’s face and gazing at him with liquid eyes.

“Plenty of time to talk about all that later. Right now, I’d like to thank you for your present . . . for everything, really. Love you so much, angel-mine. Perfect Christmas.”

Tony’s first impulse was to raise both fists in victory because he had done it: He had pulled off Christmas Mark1 in style. Nobody thought he could do it, but he did. Yeah. He won. Tony Christmas. King of Christmas. Hell, the _Emperor_ of Christmas! Nobody saw that coming. He decided to hold off his victory lap, though. Steve looked achingly sincere and Tony’s heart was doing the Grinch thing and growing three full sizes in his shrapnel-laden chest, pressing hard enough on his sternum to make him wonder if there would still be room for the arc reactor. “Baby, I never got it. The whole Christmas thing. Be lying if I said I get it now. But I liked it. This year. With you.”

Of course, he could probably come to like living in a swamp slapping mosquitos and wrestling alligators if he was doing it with Steve, so his words may not have been a ringing endorsement of Christmas as a whole, but they were right enough to earn him a lovely kiss followed by a ride back to bed in Steve’s arms.

The lovemaking that followed was slow and cherishing, Steve outdoing even his own usual generous technique. Tony didn’t bother to try to scrub away the water that leaked from the corners of his eyes when Steve, at last, was buried deep inside him, unraveling him from the inside out in a way only Steve had ever done. All Tony could do was pant and writhe and gasp his lover’s name over and over, a loving mantra that was the closest he’d ever come to true religion, fingers scrabbling for purchase over the sculpted shoulders above him. Steve’s hands left Tony’s hips and encircled his back, lifting him up, sealing their chests together as Steve pumped into him, sure and strong and possessive and gentle, and Tony’s ass chased the fine cock splitting him, racing towards completion. And the stunning orgasm that overtook them, that Tony could feel light him from within—brighter than the biggest Christmas tree—shattered the brittle patina of the ghosts of Christmases past, leaving Tony both undone and complete at the same time. And maybe for the first time he did understand the potential of Christmas. Yeah, he could get used to this.

Tony trembled as big, gentle hands soothed him, brought him down, settled him into the covers. A tiny moan escaped him when Steve’s cock finally softened enough to slide from his body, but silky lips covered his own, banishing any feelings of loss before they could bloom. Tony’s last thought before a deep and pleasurable sleep overtook him was _Only 364 days till Christmas. . . ._

~0~0~0~

And despite Tony requesting—and getting—an “instant replay” the next morning, given that he hadn’t been allowed to record his Christmas gift activities for future viewing, they still managed to make it to Christmas breakfast with the rest of their Avengers family. Actually, more like brunch, or closer to lunch by the time they all made it to the dining room. But, in true Christmas style, Tony Stark was eager to carve the roast beast, visions of chalets and Steve’s yet unseen Christmas outfits—that he would make sure were packed—dancing through his head.

As he slipped Arrow some scraps from the table, Tony couldn’t manage to get the loop in his brain to turn off. Yeah, Christmas brainwashing for sure, but who cared, right?

_Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store._

_Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more._

_Welcome Christmas, bring your cheer,_

_Cheer to all Whos, far and near._

_Christmas Day is in our grasp_

_So long as we have hands to clasp._

_Christmas Day will always be_

_Just as long as we have we._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How The Grinch Stole Christmas_ words and lyrics taken from the original television special produced in 1966, based on the book by Dr. Seuss (Theodor Geisel) and directed by Chuck Jones and Ben Washam, with additional story credit to Irv Spector. If you've never seen it, you are missing something special. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more stories in _The Awakenings Universe_ hopefully coming soon!
> 
> Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the Series Notes for the _Awakenings_ Universe for clarification as to what aspects of The _Avengers ___movie-verse will and won’t be found in this series. I would not want anyone to be disappointed.


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